Beetles

"He kissed me today."

My left-handed ink bleeds into the paper, making little feathers, like electricity. I have to switch color every letter in order to keep the time and date indistinct. It was a strange feeling today, warm and yellow and orange and a very, very little bit of red. It left me feeling amazing and beautiful and lonely and cold.

I add this message to the shoebox beneath my bed. I try not to read the other ones, not yet. I'll read them a different day, when I wonder if I just dreamed everything that happened. It's sort of like a safe-guard, something to keep me tied to the ground, something to keep me flying. Counteracting all the things that have never happened is almost habit for me now. I've never wanted to kill myself, but I hide away all the knives and ask other people to get me medicine anyway. I've never truly wanted to run away, but I build it up worse so it doesn't seem so bad.

I hate beetles. I hate especially the small ones. I don't scream or giggle when I see them, because it's more of a loathing, not an attention-seeker. The sound of thousands of little feet and thousands of little exoskeletons rubbing together is amplified into my mind as soon as I catch sight of one of the hideous little demons. I have that on a piece of paper in my shoebox, somewhere. It doesn't really need to be there, because that's something I never need to be reminded of. I wrote it down and put it in anyway.

It's times like these when I have to get off the train and push it back on course. I think something is loose inside that mysterious black box which makes the wheels turn. I always end up thinking about beetles, when there are more important things in the making.

He kissed me today.

I can see the colors dancing back up to remind me, but I don't mind. Green, blue, pink, red, purple, repeat. That's how I wrote it. It had to be that way, or it would stand out too much and I might not be able to suppress it, if anything bad should happen.

Something bad has never happened with him, but as I have said before, I have a tendency to prepare for things that will never come to pass...

There's a beetle crawling across my ceiling.

I smile and roll onto my stomach. Maybe I'll go through that shoebox and read all my memories, just for kicks.