I am living life at 50%.

I ache to acknowledge my other half. 

The girl who has the confidence to do all the things I can not. 

She finishes the hundreds of half written poems that take up space in my journals; she doesn’t let her last thoughts dwindle in the un-spoken depths of my mind, but rather speaks them aloud.

She demands to be heard,

And when no one listens, she speaks louder.

She is not sane nor is she crazy, but rather 50% of both. 

We are not the same, me and her.

She is my ideal, and I am exactly what she can not be.

Like most things that don’t make sense, we need each other.

Fire melts ice, but water puts out fire.

Like enemies that need each other to survive.

I watch her with glazed over eyes.

Her picture is a little faded from the wear of life, but I imagine she has shoulder length, wavy hair.

With a texture similar to mine, but a little less taimed and a little more free.

Her cheeks are rosy because the sun kissed them, and across the bridge of her nose, she has the most perfect freckles.

Like a flower that gave everything, aching to receive something in return, she dried up in the sun.

These miniscule features unnoticed by many are what give her character among the plain aspects of our conjoined psyche.

Without her, I would be boring; without me, she would be fiction. 

Like a flower that gave everything, aching to receive something in return, she dried up in the sun.

50% is not enough battery to last a lifetime. 

Maybe we should all just try to be 100% ourselves. 

What a world that would be.