We do all these little things to try to make ourselves happy. We build these little homes and nests inside other people's hearts and try and live out our lives there. Hanging up memories on the wall and stuffing our beds with the kind of emotions that creep and whisper rather then stomp and shout.

This is what I do.

I creep and whisper my way into someone's heart until they love me so much that it all comes full circle. Love becomes a hazy memory and I find that I have become an unwanted houseguest. Trespassing. It is a course I have plotted more then once.

It seems that we are at zero again.

Time eventually finds your home destroyed and you are evicted from someone's heart, someone's love, someone's life. It always happens. If it hasn't happened to you yet, it will. Everything you will ever love will hurt you, reject you, or die.

This is undeniable truth.

Untalented poets spread insidious lies of everlasting love, but all that lives is fleeting, and not even love can last forever. The world is filled with forgotten gravestones, all monuments to the finality of memories, passion, love, grief.

I spent an hour in secret one day, tearing weeds away with my bare hands. Scratching and cutting my fingers into a dirty blood-crusted mess as I slowly revealed a name similar to mine.

This person commanded a funeral parade nearly a mile long, and in ten years, not one person had come to cut back the weeds.

We all look forward to similar treatment.

I'll go back someday and tear at the weeds again. For no reason other then to remember.

To be the one who remembers.

Someday weeds grow over your life and all that you love.

She tells me how much she loves me and how much she wants to be with me. How she dreams of me, how perfect I am, how much she needs me. She says how much she wants me to come down next month and stay with her, and talk to her, sit with her...make love to her.

Everyone I have ever loved has cheated either emotionally or physically. Today is no different then any other day.

I have highs and I have lows. Tiny bouts of manic depression that drive me through my every-day life and make everything funny, shitty, special...tragically painful.

She tells me how much she misses me, how she wishes we were together right now. She tells me how she dreams of living with me.

She tells me about how she slept with him.

I build myself inside all these hearts, desperately hoping to find a new home. I place all my hopes and dreams in the hands of other people with the realization that someday everything is going to fall.

I want to be something amazing to someone. I so desperately want to be the center of a life, of any life.

I am a suburb.

I am a satellite.

I am an asteroid belt. Caught in the greater gravity of nothingness. Tricked into the random pulls of stars, planets...whatever. I am homeless and wandering.

She asks me if I'm going to be okay...if "we're" going to be okay. She doesn't really want the answer.

Sometimes I feel as though I'm never going to be okay.

Today is no different then any other day.

I will smile and laugh and play the game. I will drink and chat and provide good company to good friends. I shall make the world glow around me. And tonight, when the friends are gone and I�m alone again in my bed, I will perform a private funeral and burry one more part of my life.

One more emotion, one more potential something.

The graveyard of my heart is growing full.

Everyone loves me, everyone lies to me, everyone cheats on me. Blame is the coward's band-aid.

Band-aids fall off eventually, but dirt is forever.

So I dig another hole for yet another broken something, knowing that someday weeds will grow over this too.