mypienow

looking back, I can't help but think that life is just weird. and as I lay here in my bed, with rain once again pouring outside, dancing, sliding down the outter window glass I think I realize that some things are better left a memory. maybe you're better left a memory. and I've changed so much these past few months, i'm not really sure where to go anymore. but maybe it's time I gave up on virgos  and guitars and boys who only come around when it rains. maybe I should learn to kiss sober and whisper sober and love sober. maybe it's time for change-- for a re-awakening and to forget those silly boys whose lips taste like rain. ...

you never ask me if i'm okay in quite the right way. it's always as if it's an accusation-- as if anything wrong with me reflects badly on you or i'm insane or you just don't fully understand. i used to want to talk, but not anymore, not with the way you ask. and you have a way of making everything feel forced. like a chore. like it's not really an option or something sweet, but something mandatory. it's required. there's so many reasons i can't talk to you. but i collect people anyways, and we all have our own purposes. the right things to do and say and talk about together and it's not the same for each and everyone. the French sa

I wish that I could write, so that I could tell you all the things I've figured out. Like, that love isn't always so loud, so insistent. That it doesn't have to hurt to feel real. But it's in the quiet way you kiss my forehead, or whisper to me goodnight, pulling me closer in your dreams. It's in the way you softly twist my hair, stroke my hand, laugh contentedly at my weirdness. It's how I fit inside your arms or on your lap. Things aren't like how I once thought. I don't have to ache to know I'm in love. To know that I'm yours and you are mine. This love is ours.