sing again.

a life packed full of mindless joy
it is not easy to enjoy

and all of a sudden, it was like a barrage. a tidal wave of sentiments and longing, desperation and longing and longing desperation poured out of my mouth and in torrents cascaded down my chest and trickled to the soles of my feet.

and it was nice to feel important for mere moments, to feel desire and to feel desired. and it was fucking fantastic to hear the silence marred and broken by the steady rhythm of heartbeats and labored, heavy breathing.

and i don't feel as if i should be ashamed for wanting something inconsequential. for wanting the delicacy of lipsandfingertipsandpleasure.

i'm eighteen and confused and lonesome.

and i just want to feel important to somebody. even once. just for one night.

and i think i was.

for jack.

three a.m. desires for girl talk met with giggles and modern sonnets muffled by the familiar wood of the door.

loud,but still softer than the thump-thump-thumping of my heart against my ribcage.

no one said it would be easy.

some constellation

I'm feeling the pervasive edge of desperation.
And I can't even seem to be honest with anyone quite how heavy my heart feels.

Except Ducky. My Ducky.

Yes, another boy. Another nickname for another boy.

But, in so many ways, this territory feels pleasantly threadbare. He's Harry part deux, the deja-vu sentiments of treading that place between friend and friendlier, that semblance of comfort and honesty and simple pleasure derived from the company of another.

Why am I constantly falling for the boys whose absence I couldn't take? Why am I always unconsciously pushing away the ones I want need to stay?

Ducky, look how cute I am!
Listen to my heartache as my face contorts in anguish and depravity personified.

Thisisthesoundofaheartbreaking.

How is it that I can be so positively candid here, and with Ducky, but nowhere else? Why is fate so cruel that my heart can burst when he's around, exposing the worst and most ill-liked parts of my personality?

Am I really that laissez-faire with my emotions? Elsewhere, that is.

I want to paint the town my favorite color and explode into handclap choruses. I want heartfelt sing-alongs and childish frivolity. I'm finding it harder...

...harder to be.

Stitching Leggings

I'm seeking gratification.

Romantic, intellectual, torrid, and simplistic.

I'm hiding in unmade beds and unwashed dishes, clever and careful and carefree.
Except I'm not.
I'm reclusive in my lack of reserve,
and I'm finding sorrow in the discontent of platonic handholding.

Here's to attempts to saving myself from myself.