Ever.

December 14, 2009
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Jane, you are my best friend. Like, ever. In the whole wide world. I care about you, Jane. I really do. Don't you care about me?

Jane. You dress like it's always winter but you have a smile like the sun. I love the way you dress, Jane. I love the way you spin around in circles until you fall over laughing. I love the way you always make bad jokes about things that you hate. I love everything about you. Even the things that you do that make me cry. I love them still, because you are my best friend. Ever.

So why, Jane? Why do you spit fires when people talk to you? Why do you cut them with your eyes? Why do you do that, Jane?

If only they knew. The real you. The Jane that I know. They would love you, just like I do.

I wish there was a place we could go, Jane. Somewhere far away from here, where the sky didn't always have to be blue; it could be any color you wanted, and we could run away all day and never get tired and sing until our voices were gone and then read read read until our eyes hurt, but they wouldn't because in the place we would go, there would never be any hurting, ever.

Except I'm not brave, Jane. I'm not as brave as you are. I dream about those things, but I could never do them. Ever.

I live in the real world, Jane. And I wish you did, too. Instead you live in a place where there are night mares all the time that leave scratches on your face. You live where no one trusts anyone, ever. Where everyone is a liar and that's just how you talk to people.

Come back to me, Jane. I don't care if you spit fires at me, or cut me with your eyes. I don't care if you don't trust me, I don't care if you only know how to talk in lies. I just want you to be happy, Jane. It's not so bad. You would like it. I promise that you would.

Jane. I care about you. Don't you care about me?





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