i’m thankful my childhood was filled with imagination and bruises from playing outside, instead of apps and how many damn likes you get on a picture
it makes me so happy seeing selfies that say ‘i felt cute today’ or ‘hair game strong’ it’s so good to love yourself and it’s also so hard to love yourself don’t let anyone tell you differently you’re allowed to admit you’re fucking adorable
The hardest part is that I’ll never let someone in the way I did you, I’ll never again let someone touch me the way you did.
You were my first and last everything.
So listen, here’s a truth I’ve forgotten to speak for awhile, and the truth sets you free and fortifies itself like Icarus wings for you to wear, right?
I want to be free and I’m looking for someone who exists in words and music and images that I draw out of magic hats like my mind. Magic hats black like my heart: I am heartless. I fooled you, didn’t I? Magic hands black like my heart with a band of white you thought you could make grow but
I’m sorry, love, my heart has never been yours. It is mine and I am keeping it right here on my sleeve and I’m going to patch every seam and stitch and still, still I’m going to let it burst out of the fabric every time.
I wrote you so many letters in my head and the truth is I never sent them because I am not brave enough to give you a boarding pass that you can throw away or renew for a different season. I live in the second city of lights so tiny that on a plane it is a speck of fairy dust but did you want to know that there are no trains that lead out of the urban? You can’t leave my heart and its congested alleyways, its tight grasp, all the trees clinging on tight with their roots.
Listen, here’s a truth I forgot to add into the clauses when you decided you wanted me, I don’t know how to love without being terrified and I don’t know how to be brave enough to let people leave so I lie, I always lie, and I pretend that I’m cold enough to shut the doors on them when it’s always been me shivering in a ditch carving poetry onto tarmac with leftover dirt.
Listen, here’s a truth I’ve never forgotten and always held between my teeth: poetry is poetry if the heart sings it (and my heart is singing your name but I didn’t confess it, never, no), no matter where you write it, and I would write you into my bloodstream if I were brave and beautiful enough but you are a poem that exists without me and at least words, I know how to let go of.
You can be in a relationship for two years and feel nothing; you can be in a relationship for 2 months and feel everything. Time is not a measure of quality; of infatuation, or of love.
im in the mood to receive a check for six hundred thousand dollars