I want you to lose my number. Delete it. Stop calling me. Stop showing up uninvited. Stop telling me I’m no good without you. Stop convincing me we’re meant to be, that we’re the only ones who actually understand each other.
Placeholder girls like me don’t know they are placeholders until it’s too late.
This election feels like we’re all standing at the precipice of an actual apocalypse. Like, not the cool kind with dragons and shit.
I think it’s being bred into us. We talk about what we want to be when we grow up. In school, we pick majors to lead us in the right direction. We fill up resumes. More. More. More. Follow the dream! Figure it out! Keep going!
Loving someone in spite of flaws is great. Loving someone because you think you can save them, or they can save you, is something entirely different.
And then, there he is. The boy. The dream boy. Dark, wavy locks, dimples, a face that is somehow goofy and handsome at once.
Don’t waste your energy on those who continuously drain it.
They won’t respond for days and when they do, they say something like, “Omg, sorry! I thought I texted you back.”
I chase after men who are impossible to reach. I like strangers on the street. Baristas, bartenders, men I won’t ever have to get to know. They can remain fantasies. Handsome faces on my TV screen.
the first night we are together, we crack open our ribcages like Russian nesting dolls, and I drink up the darkness that spills from yours