Dear Journal masquerading as Notebook for work,
I did it again today. I stared into those eyes, dreamt I could be held in them, and saw instead the reflection of HER.
HER. Evil incarnate. Reason that I am alone, sad, depressed, wanting.
She breaths, and I rot in my own misery.
He looked nice, jeans, cowboy shirt, half-tilted smile. I smiled and smiled all day, chatting with him whenever I had the chance. Do boys ever know when they could just grab you and kiss you and not let go? Do they ever know that?
Idiot. I know.
Dear Journal wanting to be more than it is,
I dreamt of him. Soft kisses, golden smiles, hands that stretched over me, under me, around me. He ached, I felt it, he laughed and my whole chest exploded with happiness.
I HATE. Hate that I am not with him, that I feel this need to paint myself in sorrow each time he is not around. I wish I could wear colour again…
He looked nice, sports jersey and tossled hair. He poked me and I laughed, laughed and smiled and felt my heart expand.
Dear journal sucking my soul dry,
If π is an infinite number and the world is round, than why am I not with him? It seems like it would be logical, concise, predictable. And yet, there she stands in his eyes always waving, smiling, punching me in the gut. And he just smiles right back, entranced by her every move, her every breath. She spins fairy tales in his heart, she lets down her hair and he aches to climb it forever. I weep poisoned apples, hoping she will taste just one.
– Tegan Thuss