Little Wonders.

Small hours. Twists and turns of fate.

All of my regret will wash away somehow, but I cannot forget the way I feel right now.

Do you have any idea, any Fucking idea, how I feel, right now, about you?

No. Because I don’t tell you. I hint and skirt around it because I’m scared and weak and a weenie. I don’t have the courage to ever just flat out admit to anything close to my heart, because my tear glands are overactive and my hands shake as much as my voice.

Which you haven’t heard. In almost a year. Do you even remember how it sounds? How it’s a little bit awkwardly deep? To me, anyway. I don’t like my voice.

What am I scared of?” Fictional Asssphinctersayswhat (what?) Reader might ask. I am scared that the recipient of all my completely unwarranted feelings and longings and shit does not remotely feel anything at all towards my general direction. I am afraid of non-reciprocation. Because, if I’m quiet and let it die, then no harm, no foul. I can get past that. But if I said anything, if I let it out, if I didn’t let it fester and boil inside, then what would my villain backstory be? Stupid, that’s what. If I did tell him and I made it real, if I couldn’t lie to myself later down the road and say I made it all up, then I might literally die. Probably not. But the world would be grey and I’d see red doors and want to paint them black, and possibly shoot a lot of people I hate. Because, fuck morality if I have nowhere to put my heart. Nobody’s pocket to keep it in, safely.

Boston – More Than A Feeling

Kate Nash – Nicest Thing

You really are nice. I highly, highly doubt that I’m your favorite girl. And for some stupid reason, that pushes on my heart, through my sternum, like a mean kid would push his thumb into a bruise. I’m oversensitive. I’ve admitted that to myself several times.

Basically, I wish that you loved me.

Why do I have this selfish type of love? The jealous type. I think it’s the true kind, but it seems overreaching and absurd. Why am I even saying the word love? I don’t say that.

Fuck. Spotify is working on breaking me down tonight.

Why can’t I go back to when the only boy I ever thought about was Peter Pan (Jeremy Sumpter version, not that animated fairy)?

Clocks and Life in Technicolor ii.

Good Riddance [Time of your Life]. surprisingly sad and sweet. fuck you anyway. not with the one I want! slut.

Dr. Dog is telling me to hang on. But I don’t need no doctor. I need you. ):

LOVE IS BLINDNESS. mmmMmmmMmmmMmmmMmmmM.

Suerte.

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