i don't feel like screaming. i never do. i'm more of a sulk till your insides hurt and don't stop till waves of disgust are richoeting inside your brain. feel almost nauseated.
look i would've asked for anything else but nausea but it's not in my control. you're in love with your friends and i am in love with you. this makes me feel parasitic whenever i'm next to you trying to sniff more of that cherry blossom body mist. i'll gladly choke on that scent. but not on infatuation.
i sense this genuine gaping hole somewhere inside of me that thrives off stimulation. so why don't you smile for a minute or two so i can write shit about ribcages. i wish i could write about your heart or your presence but i'm always stuck on gums or tongues or thighs. i dream of you wearing peach velvet and embroidered boots and oversized retro glasses in hues of tangerine and raw honey but after a few seconds it gets overwhelming. my mind consumes itself i can't figure out but i've noted down on my fluorescent pink sticky notes that "2017: you finally start realising your crap" why don't you play the god once so that something good finally comes out of this?
and funnily enough the last line i type out is the one i want to start this jabbering with. truly ugly.
