I love summer. I love flowers. I love night time. I love laying in your bed and snuggling into a ball while talking to the wee hours of the morning. I love running through your nieghborhood with only the sound of my flip flops slapping the pavement and our careless laughter. I love eating ice cream and listening to music in my room while day dreaming about a rockstarlove life. I love painting my nails black and my toe nails bright pink and feeling the wind while driving around in the black convertible. I love sneaking into R-rated movies in the theatres and propping our feet up on the empty seats, while giggiling and falling in love with the movie in front of us. I love printing out pages and pages of beautiful celebrity sexgods with you in the library. I love saving money and planning our trip to Transylvania, Romania. I love sitting in starbucks and watching the stonerboys trying to avoid our eyes or make funny faces at us through the windows until I'm convulsing with laughter. I love accidentally making eye contact with Kai while sitting in your bed at five in the morning and drowning with lust. I love talking to my mom about my dreams and sitting out on our porch in the sun. I love sitting downtown hidden beneath my sweatshirts and trying not to smile too hugely at the gorgeous black-eyeliner boy or the red-haired, beautiful pale girl. I love inhaling smoke from cigarettes and marijuana, while you're mom hands us bottles of Mike's hard lemonade. I love cemeteries and books and dandelions. I love rainbow-coloured slinkys and mixed cds and piercings. I love sleeping and eating and laughing and talking and dancing and playing. I love boys I love girls I love swings I love magic. I love him I love her I love my friends I love the stranger with the mysterious pretty words I love you.
So with all that love, with all that beauty, with all that exhiliration why can't I seem to be able to love life? Why can't I find anything worth loving in myself? Why, fucking why, am I crumbling inside?