I liked writing more when I didn’t know who I could love, when men fell from my sight and I didn’t mind because I never had looked past their smiles.
I liked writing more when there were no lips I would worry about never kissing, when there were no hearts I could break, when there were no adventures I could regret because I was so used to exploring alone.
I liked writing more when I thought I could run away from you, when forgetting came naturally. When you wouldn’t call me the same night I made the silent promise to stop loving you, falling asleep slowly while you talked about your family, waking me again at 3am only half conscious.
I liked writing more when every phrase was hypothetical, when every metaphor was too distant and unfamiliar to drop my heart and take my breath. “I feel like people try to put into words what they feel instead of showing you,” you said, and I bit my tongue.
I’ve written 67 poems about you, riddled and barricaded. I guess I will keep writing love until I can show it.”
"I need to pass this class"
*starts calculating what I need to get on tests and quizzes instead of actually studying for the class*
Fall in love with the right people. Don’t go for the toxic ones, the ones that question your decisions and actions and make you feel guilty for wanting to spend some time alone. You have every right to hole up in your room and eat Ramen noodles and flip through People magazines by yourself for a…