"All's quiet as she takes her aim.
But the weapons have changed"

A dead dear. A dead deer. A misguided branch. A neglected notebook.
Sore throats.Panic attacks. Sun kissed kisses. Mean spirited jokes.
Coming and going. Soft spoken doubts.

I'm slowly becoming more extremist in my disapproval of most things. I've been silently ranting to myself about obese children and abused farm animals and starving nations and outsourcing employment and prideful gluttony and exploited headlines and over commercialism and pointless consumerism. I am in no way saying I am not guilty of committing the very offenses I have decided to revolt against. But I'm starting to see the wrong in the world and no longer want to be a part of it.

Having been actively avoiding that restaurant for months, I was finally forced to face the three way door and the familiar patch of leather bench. After making a stealthy exit, I stopped for a moment. I stood with eyes closed and labored breath. I briefly revisited that day which eventually led to a downward spiral of self-doubt and confusion. I tried to feel something other than relief, but could not. Without giving it too much thought I skipped away like a child, eagerly anticipating the open arms of the one I have yet to scare away.

I received yellow flowers.
This prevented me from choosing what would surly
be an emotionally self-destructive evening.
I opted against the possibility of being faced with an impossible feeling.

In regards the the previously mentioned yellow flowers,
I still can't believe they are mine.
I've been given flowers twice that I can remember. Perhaps three times.
Once by my parents to congratulate my success in my ballet recital.
And once by my Grandmother for braving a terrifying surgery.
Pulled out from behind his back,
I thought about crying, but decided against it.
Instead I stained my nose and cheeks with pollen.

My hate for wearing shoes is growing
and my love of being barefoot is overwhelming.

I'm under a thousand microscopes.
Each magnification a prettier distortion of the last.
Please, don't pull away. There won't be anything beautiful left to see.

My expectations for happiness are no longer tangible.

While trapped in traffic, I realized that I was at a complete stop beside an exit I once thought I would grow to love. One that I thought my car would drive to without me telling it to. I hesitated. I hate that I hesitated. I don't want to be that type of person. I blame the heat and my overall frustration with life in general for allowing my mind to wander and exit. Right, left, left. Despite my ill fated attempts, I still remember the way. I praise the heavens everyday that my car fights temptation and instead directs me to where I feel safe. Where I am safe, I should say.

I am a firm believer in second chances
and find myself thankful for those given to me.

A psychiatrist approached me while on my cigarette break and gave me his card. He was half hitting on me, half concerned for my well being. According to him, I looked like a girl with problems.
I can't say I blame him for thinking that.
He's right, for the most part.