I once had a friend who told me that no guy should cost me my sanity and I always believed that she was right. I see you talk about him and your words slur together as if you don’t know what to say, but I think you have too much to say. I like to see people talk about the things that they are passionate about, and the way your eyes twinkle is not graceful but it’s strong, and if a guy can make you strong when you don’t even have him yet, I ought to think that’s the kind of insanity that’s worth it. Your insanity shivers your lips and crinkles your nose; if he saw it he’d think it’s cute. You smile this smile that reads as if it is an excerpt from the greatest love story on earth. When you think about him and think that nobody knows, your hands wrap around themselves and I wonder if that’s your way of yearning for his touch. If your sanity grants you peace and mindfulness, but the passion he gives you grants you zest for life and freedom from your walls, then I must say I think you’ve won this one.
I’ve been thinking about boarding school, and I remember way back when we were still “we” and I told you I might consider boarding school. You smiled and said with the saddest eyes I could imagine, “Please don’t go. I’ll miss you so much.” and I’m positive that in that moment I made up my mind that I was not going. But nonetheless, I told you that it was still an option. I tried to convince myself that love isn’t a reason to stay. I tried to tell myself that a boy is not enough reason to be somewhere. Then, I considered what could make me stay, and the only thing I could think of was a four letter word. It branded itself on my eyelids and chanted itself against my eardrums; “love, love, love!” and I was sure that if love wasn’t a reason to stay, then I didn’t have one, and I was hesitant, so I think it’s fair to say that love *is* a reason. Love is always a reason, and that’s significant.
my brother always found out about trends before they even became popular.
he knew Lana del Rey when she was Lizzie Grant.
I don’t know much about what’s going to happen in the future, and I *still* don’t own a Barbour jacket.
my palms sweat when people talk about popular music and artists and brands.
I’ve never known something before it knew me,
but I hated everyone before it became cool.
they say doing something first makes you a leader, but I never wanted the house that I built of blades and blood and degrading words to become a shelter for those who felt lost.
I never knew that wanting to shrink myself 24/7 also meant encouraging other people to do the same.
my eyes are cloudy with the steam of my shower,
my bath water smells like rose petals,
and my voice is strong.
I hope hearing it will help you acquire a part of me that I’m proud of.
"he asked where I was and when I told him I think he expected somewhere royal and beautiful. in reality, the beauties were few and far between. I would’ve spent time convincing him of all the wonderful parts, but he told me that the way I smiled lit up the entire place enough that it didn’t need any other beauties."
we were sitting on the steps, and all our friends were laughing and spinning in circles. they were high on love and the night sky. I felt like I should get up and spin with them, but a foggy familiarity pulled me back to my spot next to you. you must have thought that I was still in love with you or something of the like. your eyes became small crescents when I took your hand and said, “thank you. thank you for letting me go. I haven’t let you go yet, and if you get the chance, trace the palm of your hand. measure the circumference around your finger. your whole world is wrapped around your finger. you’ve got your whole life of splendors and wonders in the palm of your hand. you’ve let me go, and I’ll be gone in two months; my world has not yet stopped growing, and it’s bigger than my being. its pull is stronger than your magnetic eyes and vehemently gripping voice. thank you.”
"I will ask you a thousand questions, and I hope you won’t know the answer. one day, you will find the answer; in that moment, some part of you will think of me, and I hope you want me to know the answer."
one day, I will wake up beside the love of my life. he will love me too, and we will remind each other all the time. we’ll be loyal, kind, and exciting. one day, I will wake up and he will have left me. there will be passion and inspiration flowing from my ears and out my eyes. my mind will not stop ranting love stories of what could have been to the tendons in my fingers which used to stroke his back. they will beg to be written down, but the desperation that comes with heartbreak will stop me from moving. I will be paralyzed with fear and utter despair. life will not be moving on around me, but rather time will stop as if to say, “put your pieces back together.” and I will, but when I do, my inspiration will slow to a tepid trickle of words that operate like an assembly line and flow like an angry tirade. my golden words and shining moments are in between my ears where nobody has ever been allowed because I am not sure what else lurks there.
there is a difference between attractive, pretty, beautiful, and stunning. stunning walks into a room and your jaw drops but no matter how often you think of her, you never see her again. attractive has an angelic pout in her lips or a bounce in her step. she smells like roses and she’s a kind girl. she giggles from her belly. pretty whips her hair out of a ponytail after gym class and has no idea that anyone is around her; she’s slight, but she is strong. she has blue eyes that are like the sea when it is sunny. her smile is broken and a little crooked. beautiful shows you her house and invites you to make it your own. she’s talented, smart, friendly, and she has been thrown around. she’s been beaten and she’s been raised up. she’s met God in her dreams and she’s asked him a few questions, but maybe she’s decided that he only lives in her dreams; maybe she loves him more than you. she is moral, but she is daring. you chase after beautiful even when she’s a mile away, even when she is in your arms. beautiful has never been enough; she’s never been stunning. she’s flawed and she always has bruises or skinned knees. her collar bone is elegant but her cheeks are chubby and cute. beautiful is the type of girl you’d wake up next to every day and wish that you hadn’t because as long as she is by your side, you have no reason to get out of bed. she has become your reason to eat, to love, to smell and to see. she’s your wrong and your right. she is not sure of anything; neither are you, but goddamn you love your beautiful, and that’s the only thing you’re really sure of these days.
If I had to tell our story, I’d start with the first time we danced. I felt butterflies, but more importantly, I felt a closeness which told me it was mutual. Then I would tell how scared I was when I decided to tell you that I thought you were wonderful. I remember you saying, “I think you’re wonderful, too.” We were so innocent. I’d compose most of our middle chapters with stories about us while I was falling in love with you. I’d start with the times you made me smile and roll over in bed at the simple sight of your sweet texts. I would highlight my head on your chest while we laid under the stars and I’d write the lyrics to the chorus of our song. I’d spell out the raw honesty in your eyes that I refused to see when you looked at her. I’d note our climax as my body alongside yours when you told me not to worry and kissed my lips, and I’d whisper the word “babe” to the pages of our book in the same way you whispered them in my ear. I’d write our falling action as sharply as it happened. My words would be bitter and hard to swallow. You’d be written as a criminal with angelic traits, and I’d show you no mercy. Our novel would become mine as I wrote a tirade wandering from the pain you caused me to the nights you did not speak to me to the evening I realized you had left without saying goodbye. You were gone without leaving the room. Our resolution would be one word, “gone.” It would be written in bold; it would be blurry, smudged text. It would be written in sharpie, and you’d be the scribe. Don’t you get it; our book is something we had both liked the idea of, but you never actually wanted to write it.