Seventeen

Everything I do, I do with all my heart. I put my heart into newspaper, and I put my heart into you. You didn't take it with you, I sewed it into you when you hugged me last. I let my bleeding veins attach to yours.
There's a boy carrying my heart. I think he'll always have it, and I'll always let him have it. He needs it more than me. I'm okay with being heartless, as long as I use chunks of others hearts in return to make me whole. He'll always have a part of me to walk with, and I know I'll always have my mind and body to look forward to.
Reading William Saroyan makes me feel better about the person I am- this half-Armenian, half-English,French,Spanish little girl floating around the universe with mint skin and crow's hair. I don't mind being a little different than most, listening to music that makes me cry and writing to pen pals and best friends that literally live half across the world. It makes me love them more, knowing that they wake up in a world different than my own. I want to write a story with my heart. I want to see their glittering faces when I gain my own independence and sleep in the same room with them. Wake up to the same breakfast, and know that I'll always remember the wall paper splashed on their chipping ceiling or the way their dimple dashes across their mouth.
Writing seems to be the only thing I have anymore. It's a part of me now. It's my only love. Love has once found me, captured me, put me into a greater existence, but then again- it was swept away with a single stroke of bad luck. I don't know what happened, and I tell myself every day that I want to rewind... but what would rewinding do when fast forwarding will only hurt me more? I'm sick of thinking of you.
Goodnight.