I Always Say That Teenagers

Call It Crazy, Or Just Chicken Salad. But Within Reason, Or Without It I Was In It Too.

It Was So Easy To Disown What You Couldn't Recognize, To Keep Yourself Apart From Things That Were Foreign And Unsettling. The Only Person You Can Be Sure To Control, Always, Is Yourself. Which Is A Lot To Be Sure Of, But At The Same Time, Not Enough.

But The Original Was There As Well—more Jaded And Rudimentary, Functional Rather Than Romantic. It Fit Not Just The Yellow House But Another Door, Deep Within My Own Heart. One That Had Been Locked So Tight For So Long That I Was Afraid To Even Try It For Fear Of What Might Be On The Other Side

The First Boy Was Always The Hardest.

That First Love. And The First One Who Breaks Your Heart. For Me, They Just Happen To Be The Same Person.