Sometimes I wish I could trade my parents out. I see my friends’ parents, who are open-minded and love me unconditionally as their own child. Then I see my own parents and they are so judgmental. Maybe it’s a test of my character, maybe there is a light at the end of the tunnel, maybe one day things will be different. But right now, I’m tired of fighting and I’m tired of arguing about something that I have no control over.

I guess it’s time I came out to my internet browser.

Lets drive until we run out of gas. Lets drive until we’ve smoked all the cigarettes. Lets drive until we don’t feel anything anymore. The night is ours.

I’m stressed. I’m losing myself. I’m scared. I don’t know anything anymore but I’m starting to think that’s okay. One day I’ll get out of here. Everyone deserves to be happy.

3:00 AM

Can’t sleep; too much on my mind. Don’t know where I’m going, but I’m not going home.

I can’t sing you songs or play the guitar.

I can’t paint you pictures or knit you sweaters.

I’m a mediocre cook to say the least.

I’m not very good with surprises.

But I promise that you will live forever in the pages that I write. You will live in the water-logged pages from the nights I cried myself to sleep or that time I dropped my journal in the bathtub; pages with food remnants smeared on them from when I couldn’t stop the words from flowing out, even to eat; crumpled up pages from the times I gave up on everything for another hour in my bed; pages filled with doodles when I couldn’t think of what to say; pages with words scratched out because I thought of a million different ways to describe your smile; pages with pressed flowers I picked for you; pages soaked with ink from the days where I had nothing else to hold onto.

You see, my love, you will far outlive me.

You will find yourself camping in the Ozarks, Orion right above you, and the cool night air on your neck. Maybe you’ll be in a coffee shop in the Garden District, reading through your worn out copy of your favorite book. You’ll be at the market downtown every Saturday morning, a flower tucked behind your ear from the old man that sells cheese, and your arms full of fresh produce. You’ll be riding your bike at sunset by the river or lying under the summer sun in your backyard, sprawled out on a blanket with a cold Diet Coke. You’ll be at the pet store, looking at fish for hours just because I love that look in your eyes when you are excited about something.

This is how I see you.

And because of that, you are extraordinary.

I can do this.

I am good enough.

(Source: death-of-a-poet)

Came out to my parents yesterday. This isn’t easy, but trying to keep in mind that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. It’s been a long week but it will get better; it has to.

Thank you for being awesome and for making me feel like I’m finally worth something to someone.

Nothing haunts me like the fucked up things inside my head.