Cold Coffee at Midnight

There once was a time that I created a new language with everyone I met that I wanted to keep around. Together we'd make up new words to describe the things we felt that we knew others would never understand and we used inside jokes and silly things that happened to make sense of other things or to forget things that hurt more than we cared to admit. For a while the people I met and I would explore town and claim little hideouts as our own and everyone got one but no one ever shared the location with anyone else. We would meet at sunrise or sunset depending on the day and talk about all the things everyone else would think us bratty or stupid or whatever for saying. Where we would write and paint, laugh and cry, give birth and die just a little more each time. But it was never meant as a bad thing. When I was younger I talked to people and I knew what happiness was but when my teacher taught me about the taste of ink and the feel of keys beneath my fingers I traded reality for what I could create myself. I longed for a story better than dreams and kinder than the real thing. But I quickly became addicted to that feel. Now I'm sitting behind a brightly lit screen opening healed wounds and cutting into my veins as I search for new ways to say the things poets have beat me to by centuries and trying to convey the cruelty of this world around me that really isn't all that cruel. And I really don't think you are able to comprehend this but I thought if anyone would listen to me it would be you. And I figured if I was going to bleed out tonight this would be the best canvass.

Thank you for all of your kindness and love. Thank you for only ever believing in me and wishing me the best. Thank you so much for everything. I will not let you down this time.