It's nothing. Nothing but a bunch of pictures cut up in to tiny pieces and scattered all over the floor. Nothing but a breath of wind on the back of your neck. Nothing but a smoke filled room. I need you now. I need you to tuck me in and kiss my forehead, leaving me with a protective shield all through the night. But day to day you walk around with your head way up high and your body way down low and me in between, trying to find a balance between these clashing worlds. It's not about simplicity anymore, things got complicated when our ages hit double digits. Kisses don't heal skinned knees anymore. Lollipops don't dry the tears they used to. Now I have my almost-grown-up needs that are pounding behind my head like a bass drum. The keyboard clicking away a morbid melody as my words pour out and each toxic syllable is put in to context. Hormones racing through and vicious cycle of teenage angst and insecurities with a dash of illegal substances. With every year that you add to your life, thinking that all those fairy tales your parents spoon-fed your fragile little mind will maybe one day come true. Sooner or later reality will slap and you'll realize the true meaning of contradiction is life itself. Then one day you get that feeling way down inside when that certain someone brushes you that right way, when your mind is racing and your body feels so damn good you never want it to end, those electric pulses that flow through your veins and render you weak in the knees and shaking. Nailmarks on backs and bitemarks on necks. Legs tangled and arms locked together. Sweat dripping off two teen bodies in a fit of passion they're too young to appreciate or enjoy. When lips meet lips that's the beginning and end of every emotion your poor heart feels. It beats like rythm of a steady bass line in a cheap porno soundtrack. Hours later when you're both laying there, spent, real life sinks in. When you both stand and dress, leaving in opposite directions as if the encounter never happened. As if it were some dark dirty secret you lock away in a music box. It's nothing though. Nothing but pictures scattered all over the floor. Nothing but scissors waiting to chop that heartbreaker out of your photogenic life. Nothing but the fading memory of two hands entwined, fingers laced, and the sun on our backs. Nothing but the rest of my life ahead of me.