I don't draw past the middle of the nose and I don't draw the outline because there's something about it not ending that makes it look better. There's something about the absence of eyes that helps because I don't have to look them in the eyes and tell them who I am. Who I am. Who am I. Head. Heart. Heads. Hearts. Heads and hearts. I don't shape their lips into smiles instead I let my pen draw the edges that determine wether the glass is half empty or half full. I give them a mouth that is neither happy nor sad, it's more of a reflection. But the longer I stare the more that one is sad and that one is happy but that's not what I meant oh wait. Oh wait. That one is in the middle. My pen curved correctly and my fingers turned slightly but I'm not sure if it's smiling or frowning because it's not smiling or frowning. Less of a feeling and more of a thought. But I hate the grey. I love the color grey but when we dip ourselves in it even though that's the best shade of grey the paint store has got, it makes me anxious. You were given a piece of wood they said "paint your life a color" and you loved grey so you smothered it on and I did too but the color is so different from the lifestyle. That's what's deceiving about colors. They're colors but they're feelings and they don't translate back and forth from one to the other because they're too different. Too much the same. The grey is too much the same. Too much "ok"s for everything, too much nodding of the foreheads and too much standing still. Jump. Jump to the white and tell it you believe then proudly walk into the black and tell it you understand pick one not both. I like change, I hate when things stay the same too long. But I crave familiarity. And some things are too nice that I've learned to hate endings. Hate goodbyes. I hate goodbyes. And I want to hate you but I miss you and when I said I'll miss you what I meant was I love you. It wasn't about admitting it to you but to me, because I didn't mean to love you and I wasn't supposed to love you but every time my head tries to convince myself that I love you my heart slams a hand across my mouth but I needed to know so I tied up my heart with an under-frayed rope and I let my head say it. I love you. But I never told you. My heart popped with a firework of joy. But it's funny because by head I mean heart and by heart I mean head. Head. Heart. Heads. Hearts. Do we actually have any? Heads and hearts. I can't draw the outlines because I won't admit it ended and I don't draw past the nose because I can't look them in the eyes and tell them who they are.