1Hearts come in all shapes and sizes. Mine just comes in two halves.

The sudden crunching of failed paper makes me thirsty for fresh, eclectic words. My brain is a beat-box, a shoebox, a locked box. Where are you, twenty six curves? My pen scratching in a million different directions provokes, evokes, emotion. A round inking, happiness. A dotted "i" rage. Two crossed lines, t, bring you to tears. This is writing (beauty).

Sexiness comes in the package of socked feet. They tell a story. The red ink exposes how I would bleed for you, but you would probably revel in twisting the dagger deeper. Don't project, brown eyes. Think happy thinks. Think unassuming, cotton feet entwined in front of a fireplace. This is popcorn & screen love.

I find myself being assertive and walking on a winter pond on a 43 degree day. I am not Jesus. Maybe he will save me if I drown. Drown, drown, drown. They call it painful honesty, mostly because the phrases wound their upside-down frowns. I must watch my fiery tongue, but it longs to let the truth roll off of it with a shocking wake of silence following. It longs to feel the familiarness of the inside of your cheek.

I sit and wonder at the flesh in the mirror. The longer I stare, the more pleased I am. The schizo voices of blurred frenzy leak from my head as I notice how soft I am.

I lay under bright lights and read Cosmo. This is bullshit and I am lapping it up. Voltaire is two rows away. A toddler waddles over and heartbreakingly smiles. A flick of the wrist, and she is pealing in gales of laughter at the discarded catalog on the floor, next to my happiness. I should freeze her but I'm fighting the urge to cry on her shoulder. She hands me a locked box of tissues. Thank you for the key, baby.

We drive along ten miles above and hope for silent sirens. You talk through a song that shakes my soul. You shake my soul. I would like to break my innocence to these musical notes. We sit in a crowded room and you are wearing dark eyeshadow, and mine is pink and sparkly. Irony never misses me. One, two, three, I count the tears I know are coming. I am fighting my name and wondering if God makes you pay for everything you've gained, and lost.

There is nothing red or black in me, I'm sure. It seeps into my ears like a foreign substance that my body will surely reject. I am no newbie, I've been drunk on liquids you've never even tasted. We are all dressed alike but we are so different in our earnest wishes. My assertiveness slips away, passive aggressive consideration takes over as I slip into the velvet night. There is a satin weapon in the starry sky and I am gripping it with frightening precision. I would soon be a forgotten memory, except to the four people in this world I would take a bullet for.They will not indirectly suicide me, I take no bullet for my own flesh. Repel, repel, think pretty thinks.

They were singing annual tidings, a song I've sung a million times, but my lips are choked with tears. Earth is an ugly place when your soul is beautiful, and my fingertips trace the naked mirror. My goal in life to get from one happy snapshot to the next. How was that for a story?