"11. if a boy with pretty eyes asks you who you are, show him your scars and your freckles and your bruises and let him know that you are alive."

I've read that the people you love become ghosts inside of you and that's how you keep them alive. What keep him alive are sensations. Smells and sounds. That washing liquid he gave me before leaving, the smell of fresh sheets in my bed, songs and jokes. Things and pictures. That setlist from this gig we went to, a card that I never open because I don't want it to lose its magic, a polaroid, a train ticket. 

And sometimes they kick in again. The demons. And nothing of those things do the trick. Smells and sounds. Things and pictures. They are here but maybe I invented them, maybe you don't care as much and if you don't care then I care too much.  

I'm done with being scared but I can't help it. And maybe I am a product of circumstances. Maybe I should laugh at myself for being so soft. Maybe I am not made for this kind of life.

But I have this undeniable feeling that I am willing to do this. It could work. Because if I write words, he writes music. And the demons shut up to listen to him play. That's more than everything I could ever do.