He Tells Me I’m A Nice Girl
He pulls me inside with him and says I am the best person he knows. I ask if he will ever love me the way I love him. Maybe, and I take it.
He pulls me inside with him and says I am the best person he knows. I ask if he will ever love me the way I love him. Maybe, and I take it.
You can snuggle up, run your fingers through his wavy locks, and just spend hours and hours on the couch. This is my dream relationship, to be honest.
You know it’s wrong as soon as it starts. It’s that soft voice. The gut feeling we are all told to never ignore.
You become some obsessive millennial Sherlock, hoping some hidden meaning exists in emojis or statuses. WHAT? Profile picture changed. Significant other not in the new one. WHAT DOES THIS ALL MEAN?!?!?!?!?!?!?
The same ones who spit out apologies for not being able to return your affection. They will take, but not ask how it feels to be made empty.
Yes, it’s true that you have a strong mental and physical connection to your couch and Netflix account, but this doesn’t keep you from leading a productive and fulfilling life. You just likely won’t be rolling up to the club sippin’ Bacardi.
But that’s the thing about growing up, we fantasize more than we ever want to admit. We tuck away hopes quietly, hoping nobody will point out the flaws in our expectations.
You left a trail of everywhere that you had been. You drank whisky from my collarbone, scratched passion along my thighs.
And you’re just sitting there, waiting to be seen. Hoping for results that don’t show something fatal. Something with no recovery. Something like love.
You would be the first chapter that I rewrote and rewrote until there was a plot line that ended with you kissing me.