• Through the shades of my window, I see beads of rain sliding down the glass. The rich smell of fresh coffee is faint, but definately there. Sleep fogs my senses so that even the coffee seems less delicious. I can't bring myself to leave the soft shelter my bed provides, multicolored covers and all. The events of last night taunt me from the back of my mind, begging my attention.

    I remember crying myself to sleep, listening to music to escape from the world, and how I just wasn't able to. Hearing your voice was too much for me, and as I pull myself into a sitting position, still mostly under covers, I catch sight of my tear-streaked hair in the mirror, curling a bit from the wetness. I wish you were here to whisper that everything is alright, and I know that you would, because it isn't true that you don't love me. It isn't even that I don't love you back. Perhaps, in fact, it's that I love you too much. These feelings are too mature for my young mind, this all encompassing love, and it's softly, sweetly, killing me.

    What I tell myself, though I don't let myself believe it, is that I'm beautiful. It's probably true, too. I'm young and full of hope and in love, and even though I'm maybe a little too fat, and maybe a little too awkward, I'm beautiful.

    I'm coming to understand this, and so many other things because even though, ridiculously, I cry myself to sleep sometimes, everything is going to be alright, and I'm growing up no matter how hard I try to stop it.

    My thoughts become more disjointed as I drift back into sleep, into a certainly uncertain future.

    Good night, sweet world, and good morning as well. Lead me where you will and I will follow

    because I'm still alive.