↳ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

xxv

i. i've realized that everyone has a sad story and there are so many fucking stories that i haven't heard yet and so many that i'll never hear and i think they are filling me up and spilling from my eyes.

ii. i don't know if i am in love with a person or an idea. i don't know if i am hot or cold or what is happening to my body or why i am shaking. i don't know who i am or who i will be. i don't know who he loves or who he would choose if both her and i stood in the same room. would he go to her?

iii. i don't understand calculus i will never understand calculus but i wish i had a brain for numbers but i only have a brain for bradbury and sad weird poetry with no punctuation and too many references to the ocean.

iv. i want to sleep forever i've become the kind of dangerous sad that i said i would never be.

v. i used to be a happy drunk and tell everyone i love them even when i didn't but now i just get philosophical and people pry themselves away from my words because i am ruining their night.

vi. i want to touch your skin. fuck you, i want to touch your skin and your hair smells like flowers and god can i just touch you? i hate you.

vii. i am warm and i shouldn't be. people love me and they shouldn't do that. they should drive me out into the arctic and leave me there. i saw a documentary about polar bears and apparently they'll eat anything that moves. fine.

viii. so many people have been in love and now they are dead. i have been in love and i will be in love again or maybe i won't but either way i will be dead soon and all of the love that swells up in my chest will die with me but if i don't explode before i die, where will it go?