doesn't it always go like this? aren't you always the supporting role in your own stupid film and someone you don't even know is taking the lead? then again, why is the boy the story? why does it always have to be that you two share secrets and laugh into the dark and he touches your wrist and it makes you think that it might be okay to let yourself do more than wonder. would it really kill to be allowed to consider a smile yours, to not instantly regret anything you've ever said or did, any little piece you mistakenly gave away when there's only so much you have to work with in the first place?
you really are melodramatic. there's no point in feeling battered or angry or blaming yourself but on the other hand, it's not like you had nothing to do with your own misery. you're the kind of person to ask for a lot and always, always be wounded like it's the first time, every time, when it doesn't work out. you're one to grapple with the past and build the ideals and maybe you're so hard on yourself because if you won't, who will be? you've got to grow up. you had your thousands of chances and it doesn't make any sense to torture yourself like this. why do you keep aching over
how did you miss it? maybe (of course) you knew, really, but denial's always easiest. when you grabbed his arm and pulled him close and you just had to be a stupid stoner and forget boundaries because weed makes you loose, makes you dreamy enough to whisper in his ear with his hair smelling like apples that you're madly in love with him, and what did he do? think. remember. force yourself to remember. he squeezed back and smiled where you could feel but not see and he said goodbye. he said goodbye.
he said goodbye, you clueless, silly girl.
disingenuous, he said.
and you can't even feel allowed to listen to the same music, songs you loved far before you knew he liked them, kept reminding you how similar the two of you are, how much you fit and work and click, because maybe it's some sick punishment that keeps you from wanting other things. because where the fuck has wanting ever gotten you?
you really are melodramatic. there's no point in feeling battered or angry or blaming yourself but on the other hand, it's not like you had nothing to do with your own misery. you're the kind of person to ask for a lot and always, always be wounded like it's the first time, every time, when it doesn't work out. you're one to grapple with the past and build the ideals and maybe you're so hard on yourself because if you won't, who will be? you've got to grow up. you had your thousands of chances and it doesn't make any sense to torture yourself like this. why do you keep aching over
how did you miss it? maybe (of course) you knew, really, but denial's always easiest. when you grabbed his arm and pulled him close and you just had to be a stupid stoner and forget boundaries because weed makes you loose, makes you dreamy enough to whisper in his ear with his hair smelling like apples that you're madly in love with him, and what did he do? think. remember. force yourself to remember. he squeezed back and smiled where you could feel but not see and he said goodbye. he said goodbye.
he said goodbye, you clueless, silly girl.
disingenuous, he said.
and you can't even feel allowed to listen to the same music, songs you loved far before you knew he liked them, kept reminding you how similar the two of you are, how much you fit and work and click, because maybe it's some sick punishment that keeps you from wanting other things. because where the fuck has wanting ever gotten you?
