when you slam the door.

you use the term best friends

but the only best in this friendship

is the anxiety that's getting the best of me.

the rest of it is just yesterday's tears

laid out to dry on tomorrow's homework.

you cure yourself by creating problems,

a temper so hot it could curl my hair.

demons on the sidelines,

ready to challenge whatever play your eyes might miss.

I am not a switch you flick on and off when the mood changes.

I am not here to question your tears

and lean a shoulder in when I catch your eyes water.

I'm not even here to write.

I'm here for blank pages and James' criticism,

where we swear in our secrets and eye contact has more meaning

than our locked fingers ever could.

I'm here to lock fingers with him and him and

her idea and those words.

I'm here to edit his paper and her grammar,

correcting all the mistakes that body language couldn't mend.

I'm here because my money is on this bed and this room,

but I didn't sign up to be shot down,

and my money is not on the quiet 9:00's,

and the crying 8:00's,

and the curfew that your happiness holds strong to.

I do not pay for your constant complaints

and the compliments that get lost on the way in.

I am not shelling out my bought hours

for the tears and the turmoil you're spending on me.

There is nothing best about this.

And I would call this colorless,

but it's written in a blood too bold

to be overlooked.

I know you're watching closely.

And I know you can hear me.

Scars don't scream like situations do,

so stop turning your head when the cuts ensue,

and stop pretending

like smiling is a sin

and laughter is a luxury you're not allowed into.

Stop pretending

like

we're

made

to

be

unhappy.

We're not.

We're not.