This dream will not remember me.

I clasp my chest and declare unto my audience, "I love your long shadows and your gunpowder eyes."

Things are starting to look up.

I'm not dead.

I must be patient, and work on my faults, and appreciate what's around me because it's not going to change soon anyway. I've done some serious growing up this year and I haven't even really tried like I said I was going to. I'm shedding and dissecting insecurities instead of justifying them; accepting responsibility; and trying so very hard not to flail my entire body on the ground in a tantrum when I don't get what I want *right now*. Some things are completely worth waiting for.