but inside, I'm screaming.

Fuck you get out of my face I really don’t care go away leave me alone I don’t like you stop texting me don’t call me that get out goodbye go to hell screw you I hate you.

But oh, I love you.

And I’d tell you so, but you never listened to me anyway.

We learn as babies to do whatever we can  for attention. It’s funny how we can understand that just by crying, our parents will drop everything they’re doing and run to our side. To comfort us and make sure we’re okay. 

We had been grouped together since before kindergarden had even begun. Her parents, my grandparents, brought together by something as simple as the winter weather in Maine. We didn’t have much in common, she was always trying to be more girly, and I was the soccer kid. But then again, maybe we werent really that different after all. 

She was always there, in almost all of my classes. Always a shadow of mine at the sandbox, choosing to sit next to me at lunch, playing jumprope with me during recess. We spent time together out of school too, playing in the small playhouse they had in their front yard. She was a cheerleader too, always trying to fit in with the right crowd. That was the thing about going to a small school, if you dont find the right group in kindergarden, you were screwed until high school. 
But she was always there. 
And then one day, she wasn’t.  

How could a bunch of third graders pretend they cared about someone that days before they had made fun of, had made rude remarks about both behind her back and to her face? It all comes back to that simple idea of attention. We do anything we can for attention. The girl who wrote the poem. She didnt know her. She wasnt her best friend, hadnt been at her house the week before listening to her new kidz bop cd because back then that was cool. But she could put a few words together and make them rhyme, so people believed she was hurting too, and she got what she wanted. Attention. (she’d never liked me anyways, in second grade I beat her in our spelling bee.)

I still miss her now, sometimes. How can someone so full of life be reduced to nothing by something that nobody ever thought would happen? She was my first best friend. I wonder what things would be like if she was here now. What would she look like? Would we still be friends? But I guess I’ll never know. 

Maybe we’re put on this earth for a different purpose. And once we serve our purpose, we must dissapear. Perhaps we’llnever understand it. Maybe death will always be a mystery to us. I’m not one to question it. 

But then again, I was one of the few who didn’t  cry for attention. 

I cried for my best friend.  

(this was written last year which is why the style is quite different from the one I have now developed.)

Who don’t think before they speak always reacting to the slightest thing like a match thrown into a woodpile, igniting the closest thing and trying to start a fire out of just a flame because they feel the need to cause an uproar.

It really pisses me off.

sometimes I have this dream where everything is perfect and nobody ever gets hurt and we all treat eachother as if they were not only our friends but our brothers and our sisters and nobody ever died because there was no disease and nobody lied because everyone knew everything about everyone and there was no need to try to be anything you werent because everyone loved you for you, for who you were not what you looked like or how skinny you were because you were an individual and in this world being different was something to be proud of not ashamed.

And in this dream world everything was beautiful and all the trees were greener and the sky was bluer and even the abandoned houses looked too perfect to live in with vines of ivy crawling up old brick and running through the windows effortlessly fading into the background like the houses had been here since the beginning of time not constructed by mans hand.

and then i wake up and feel so upset because this dream world is nothing like the world we live in today full of racism and hatred and so opinionated where if you’re not exactly like everyone else then you’re different and being different is very bad because if you’re not the same as everyone else you must be some sort of freak and we cant stop fighting in wars long enough to realize what really matters because we think that war is the solution to everything when really all it does is tear us apart because people are dying and somewhere someone is mourning the loss of someone they loved because there’s too much hate in the world and when there’s hate there is no love and love is really what makes the world go round.

dreams are so much better than reality.