92 days

He had 92 days left.

92 6:30 AM alarms to set.

92 walks down the 100 hall.

92 days.

I haven't cried yet.

Probably because grey has always been one of my favorite colors.

And I prefer the overcast days.

But for him, grey was more than a neutral shade on the color wheel.

He was only a senior in high school.

We're all just seniors in high school.

And you keep asking us what we can do to change this.

What we can do to prevent this.

But last week, he stood up in my art class with a canvas covered in painted balloons and a happy sky,

and that didn't seem like any sign of depression.

So I'm sorry I didn't see this coming.

I'm sorry that none of us saw this coming.

I don't think it is our school's fault,

and Nelson, I don't think it's something in the water,

or something in the library. 

I don't know what it is, none of us do.

Were all just trying to make sense of it,

but I can't seem to wrap my head around this.

Because we only have 92 days left.

And we've already made it 733.

So choose to stay.

Choose to stay for the people who love you. 

Choose to stay for the poetry you haven't written. 

Choose to stay for the music you haven't heard, and the kisses you haven't had.

Choose to stay for the places you haven't seen, and the books you haven't read. 

Choose to stay for long drives up the canyon with your head out the window. 

Choose to stay for the beginning of your life. 

Because after all it's just 92 days away, 

and we've already made it 733. 

And high school was never meant to be the end.

P.S.

They warned me about boys like you,

The ones that skip class too often,

 and wear their hair a little higher than their GPA.

They told me to stay away. 

But what's the fun in doing what you're told? 

Moody and cynical never looked so good, 

and getting your attention never felt so rewarding. 

I keep hitting the keys 

T, t t t t t....Try to forget those feelings

and

 C, c c c c c...See that he's not even worth your time.

 I'm over the heartache, because I already went through that 2 months ago,

when you pulled this shit the first time. 

The first time you tossed my heart aside, 

because yours still belongs to her. 

The first time, I gave into your bad apologies. 

It was the first time, and what should've been the last.  

So now I'm mostly just upset about polaroid film wasted, 

and my bad judgment of character. 

But lets give it up for the second chances and high school dances, 

because really, that's the only thing holding any of these "relationships" together.

January 27th came a little sooner than expected

 But now that holiday's and birthday's have passed, 

I'd say that you couldn't have picked a better time to call it quits,
so thank you.

 P.S.  I'd like my things back.  

I'm not ending as a tourist.

I know blog posts were due at 11:59 tonight,

and I may seem pathetic for starting this at 12:34.

I've feared writing this since day one, and wondering how I would go about it. 

So maybe I'll start with my name. 

My name is Cassidy McKeon.

I keep staring at those 13 letters 

&

reminding myself that if I say them enough times they will start to lose their meaning. 

Yes I've typed and re-typed my name nearly a dozen times, 

and finding words to sum up this semester is nearly impossible.  

So I'll keep it simple. 

Thank you to those who read, commented and better yet even just looked at my blog. 

Thank you to those with inspiring words and tumblr pictures. 

(I really did appreciate the pictures)

Thank you Nelson, for teaching me something that no one else has been able to.

Thank you. 

But let me just make one thing clear,

I'm not a tourist I swear.

I've been in Paris the whole time.

Even if I Tried

I remember an ivy covered house and hideous carpeted stairs.

I remember bus stops, and long talks.

I remember broken arms hurting less than broken hearts.

I remember Jack Johnson, third grade, and pancakes.


I remember the 5th grade crush, that seemed like the perfect candidate for my future husband.


I remember the first time I heard my favorite song.

I remember loose change, and quarters being as good as gold.


I remember yellow clocks, not because they kept track of the time, but because they were yellow.


I remember twin beds and hardwood floors.

I remember lucky charm marshmallows, more specifically the blue balloons.

I remember fingers caught in heavy doors.


I still listen to 15 by taylor swift because I remember being fifteen and even though I hated fifteen,
 I had that song.

I remember laughing until our ribs were sore.


I remember the first time I wanted to hear you say " I Love You." and how I never wanted it to stop, but it did. 

My problem is, that I live for the "I remembers".
&
I  couldn't forget them, even if I tried.

cold hands and heart

Her hands were always cold. 

As if there were ice running through those deep blue veins.

Not that her hands were any indication of her heart. 

But maybe they were. 

Maybe they are. 

Broken veins that tell her body that if her heart stops beating, 

they'll bleed the same way. 

Her hands were always cold. 

She always tells you. 

As if there was something you can do. 

But you can't because you can't change someone's heart. 

and she wonders,

If her hands will always be cold.

our love was a natural disaster.

We'd drive through the canyon and you'd be bothered by the silence.  I'm sorry for that,  but there was just something about nature that couldn't be ignored.

My mind got lost looking at pine tree covered forests,

the way my eyes got lost looking at you. 

I loved you the way I love overcast days.

The amount of tears could've flooded my basement if we let them.
Because I cried to you more times than it had rained all year that July.

Arguments as disastrous as hurricanes.

A touch that spread through my body like a wildfire.

Loud laughs that could've been mistaken for earthquakes.

Goodbyes that hit like a tsunami. 

And a love that was a natural disaster itself,

I was unprepared when it happened so unexpectedly. 

still remembers.

she paints her nails dark, to match her mood. 

"Death is a tragic thing" she thinks to herself. 

she remembers...

She remembers the day she found out.

She thinks about the rounds and rounds of chemo that were supposedly helping.

but mostly just hurting....

Because they failed to mention that a side effect of chemo is 

change in personality. 

The words "3-6 months" play out in her head. 

She feels lucky that she got 8 months more than expected. 

She remembers the hugs getting shorter.

She's reminded of the smell of hospital rooms. 

She remembers lying awake wondering
when?

She remembers getting the accidental text supposed to go to her mom, saying

 "I'm so sorry to hear that he passed away."

Its been two years now. 

And she still remembers.