Expensive.

Stuck.
I look down at the piece of paper in front of me and cuss to myself, under my breath.
I'm stuck.
All I have written down is one word.
Expensive.
I don't know what to do with it.
I turn it sideways, literally.
I still can't do fuck all with it.
My paper gets crumpled up and thrown into the trashcan while I stare at my table.
My table says nothing on it, except for the faint markings of what was possibly a love letter at one time.
Who knows.
Expensive.
I trace the letters with my fingers and frown, I do not know why I wrote it on the paper.
It means nothing to me, independently, and It hardly means anything in a sentence.
I wish I could crumble my table up and throw it away.
I'd be staring at the floor.
Through the floor, beneath me, is hell.
At least, that's what I've been taught.
Secretly, though, I think that hell is the reason I'm looking at my table.
I don't want to look up and see hell.
This Highschool hellhole.
Everyone is a liar.
It's disgusting.
For some reason, the children who attend school with me are too much like me.
Drama is what they leech.
They live for the drama.
If they cannot get drama, they become whores or bullies.
If they can get drama, they become depressed or ecstatic.
They feel the need to associate with a boyfriend or a girlfriend that they don't know, because it gives them the drama they want.
But there are the select few.
The ten people in my school who let me know, daily, that Ontario Highschool is not hell.
The people who manage to learn someones name before asking them out.
The people who manage to learn my name before deciding that they don't like me.
The people who help me see that everyone's an oyster with a grain of sand.
I've spent too long telling myself that I hate everyone, when I know that it's not true.
I just hate the majority.
But then there is you.
And you asked me for a dollar to day.
You said you'd pay me back, but I think i won't let you.
You are not J! and I know you a lot less than I know J!
I have never written you a song, and you have never read one that I /have/ written.
I've never told you that I love you.
I've never hugged you.
I've never told you my life story.
You probably do not know what my voice sounds like when I'm angry.
But for some reason.
Some really awkwardly strange reason.
I think that I like you far too much.
And that's why i want to, somehow, someway, get to know you.

Love always,
Ryan Thomas Dilks

ps.
I've learned my identity again, I'm also more of the man I've always wanted to be.
I'm becoming a real person, now.

I've seen more spine on jellyfish

No beating around the bush, I had an anxiety attack in band. By anxiety I mean extreme panic and depression. It was the angriest I've been in a long time and I have no idea why. The only thing that kept me from tearing some heads off was your voice. I swear. I couldn't get over the fact that Aprils socks were a different color, or that my trombone had a piece of tape on the end of it, holding my spit in. And I promise, I don't know why. It didn't stop until the dodgers won. I was still flipping out over every stupid nothing. I just want it to be next Wednesday so that I can see Say Anything.


What I could really fucking use right now:
1. a glass of water. Like, honestly, a glass.
2. some more music.
3. say anything live.
4. to get in a fight.
5. some FUCKING food.
6. and for sure some avocado.

He sifts through his bag, mostly to avoid taking another step.
The gates are open, but there are only two choices. He wipes his mouth and prepares for a step down the road on his left, believing with everything in his heart that it is indeed, the right road.

He will soon find out.

"why don't you just... ask?"
"because it seems to become harder the less it becomes theory and the more it becomes practice."

And yes, while I do wish i could just pull the fucking trigger, It's not as easy as it sounds.
My finger is shaking against it, and I don't think my aim is as good as i think it is.

I can pull the trigger from way back here, but it does not count.

once i get close enough to kill her.
yes.
kill.
her.
I cannot pull the trigger.

Die young and save yourself.

It's dark in here. In fact, it's REALLY fucking dark in here, and I don't like it one bit. I can't see who is behind me or next to me, and they are all touching me. I cannot see who is in front of me, or who I am laying on top of. I wipe the sweat from my forehead as the lights all turn on and I'm surrounded by victims of the same thing.
A succubus.
They are all silent, naked and bleeding.
No one even breathes.
I'm the only one still clothed and as a female hand brushes my shoulder, only one voice is heard.
A boy whispers softly "This is so messed up."
The hand pulls my shirt up over my head and I look the girl in the eyes while the boy who spoke bites his tongue and watches the events unfold.
And they unfold fast.
Soon I, too, am naked, silent and bleeding.

I am the lamb.
She is the slaughter.