hawk

.



the weather is kind of fucked up. my hands are incredibly cold and i wish you were here to hold them. i think there's something wrong with my bones, because at random times they'll ache as if being wrenched apart; i can't grip anything and i can't think until the pain ebbs away. most of the time it happens in my fingers and my wrists, but sometimes it happens in my ankles.

i know i have migraines all the time, but they really have been getting worse; i feel like my brain is deteriorating--it must be if i feel like its burning underneath hot coals every morning. i hate that it makes me feel so damn angry all the time; i become less patient, more irritated, more angry. i don't like it, but no matter how much ibuprofen i down, it doesn't go away. i think i'm going to take a page from house's book and start breaking my hand.



half wrote a poem about your shadows underneath cheap fluorescent lights at dusk and called it "why i love you only in the dark." stored it beneath my ribcage with all the other things that will one day make me detonate. if you'd fit, you would have been there years ago, in that one summer. then maybe i would have let you out to smell the rain once, freeze, then thaw out to become a better person, a truer lover, a more beautiful and resilient friend.