“So when are you going to admit that you love me?”
“To you or to myself?”
1. Your mom made me French toast when she was in town.
2. A stone as a present (that I sleep with on my chest when I can’t breathe).
3. The way you smell makes me want to kiss your neck.
4. “You should stay over, I’ll make you a nest.”
5. Still a fucking asshole.
There’s the way I feel about things that make me happy, then there’s the way I feel about you.
Makes perfect sense to put your words upon my body.
They’re already written in places far more precious.
What I needed to hear was, “I love you,”
but instead I heard nothing.
What I needed to see was, “I love you,”
but instead I saw nothing.
What I needed to feel was, “I love you,”
but instead I felt nothing.
Meaning, of course, that nothing had changed everything.
Nothing had achieved new stakes entirely.
Feeling like I’m doing everything right, but getting the entirely wrong results.
Like when you’re typing and typing and typing and two sentences too late you realize your left hand has been just one key over from where it should be. And although all your keystrokes have been correct, instead of “terrible” it says “yrttinlr,” and that is exactly how it feels. Yrttinlr.
A note that reads:
“Your words always required deciphering, Stella.”
Maybe gonna send it. Maybe gonna keep it, still.
He makes me so happy and he makes me so angry and he makes me smile to myself when I’m walking home late at night.
Most importantly, Whim can never, ever be mine, and so, naturally, I will love him hate him love him forever.
The more opportunities we give boys to act like men, the more likely it becomes that they will one day become men.
But no guarantees.