Rib bones.

You are young, and you know what love is, and you're tired of people saying you don't know, because you do know. You know. You know about love, but that's not enough knowing. You want to know everything. You want to know everything there is to know about everything you could possibly learn anything about. You want to sleep in, and when you wake up, you want to realize that you learned everything in your sleep. Good work, sleep.


You want to turn around and say, "Hey, world! Hey, high school! Hey, everyone! I'm great and I know everything and I'm not afraid of anything anymore!" You want to yell that at everyone, but you don't know if you believe any of it yourself, and when you admit to that, someone will remind you that everyone else in existence feels the same way, but you don't want to hear that, do you? Because it's different for you. It's worse for you -- or maybe it's better for you, but it doesn't matter because you're not them. They're not you, and they don't know what you're feeling. Don't let them tell you how to live your life.


You sit in your corner and you talk a little bit, and you don't think anyone is listening, but we're listening, and we're hanging onto your every word. Where we're going? I don't think it's going to be easy, and I keep meaning to remind you of that, but I call your name, and when you turn toward me, when I catch a glimpse of you, I am always so stunned by your beauty. You are so beautiful that the world shouldn't be able to handle you -- they can't handle you -- and I just can't bring myself to shatter you, so when I see you start to trip, I want to try and catch you. I think of you like you're breakable, like you might not finish what you started, like maybe you're not hearing me.


And do you want to climb up on a nice, good rooftop and scream? Then by all means, climb up there and scream.


You are a whispered secret. You're an oxymoron. You're antithesis. You're no longer a footnote in my book. You climbed onto the page (like you climb up on rooftops) and grew into a sentence, and that sentence blossomed into a paragraph, and that paragraph bloomed into a page or two, and then you were a nice fat chapter in my book, and I forgot to remind you that I love you.


Me: Let me into your poker game.
Boys: Come play with us next time. We need some girls to play with.
Me: I'll be there, but only if you're okay with getting beat. Ha!
Me: (frantically googles winning Texas Hold 'Em hands)
All my love,
Addy