”His breath got taken away while I couldn’t breathe at all and he sank into me with every contact of skin to skin. Even if just a finger first start to my shoulder, it’s not just that he himself was drawn in, but he couldn’t not melt into me. So much that he had to let my body somehow become a part of his. Our hair was two different completely different, but tangled together, the strands simply appeared to be made from the same beautiful being. My heart just beat out of my fucking chest and he would seemingly try to touch his to mine, like they did not synchronize or even communicate only by sound. The two just met as old friends who’d become strangers, and spoke at the same time but still understood one another though our minds had just been introduced.” ~ Megan Chruszczyk
I see a lot of posts about girls and women wanting to be the embodiment of desire:
To be the girl who is guaranteed a second glance, or a few, when they walk past men and women: not realizing that feeling like you’re constantly under a fucking microscope, that having more good days than bad sure as hell makes people think that a rough day for you gives them an open invitation to make commentary about your appearance, that even on your good days, someone is staring at you picking apart every single flaw that you are already fully aware of, yourself.
The girl who sweeps a sad boy off of his feet, after the girl who he thought that he was going to marry shattered his heart, and makes him feel better: not realizing that I don’t go home after “going home” with him and know that I’m the one who his heart longs for. I’m just a body. A good time. A fucking distraction, but not simply human. I’m the one who makes him feel special for a week, until she makes him heartsick again because the way that I delicately exhaled my cigarette reminded him of the way that he first kissed her lips 9 months ago on the same porch swing.
I hear complaints wrapped all in between longing about how these people don’t want to be just another face in the crowd, another wallflower, another body filling up the room: not realizing that I’d kill to blend it, to be looked over, to be lost in the crowd like I’m lost in my own fucking head. Overlook me, merely just as a passerby and not like you overlooked my budding feelings for him and him and the boy before that.
How they want to be the ultimate objects of lust: not realizing that I’m so sick and disgusted with being solely an object. I’m a huge step up from their hand, but I might as well be because he’s even less emotionally connected to me than he is to himself. I don’t want lust, oh my god, I want to scream, is what I want. Lust has no mercy and in turn, neither do I. But I want to love, maybe, and to be loved. To feel special for longer than a goddamn week only to be dropped faster than a dried out pen when he’s in a hurry to write down his feelings for her.
How they want to be the one who people have jealous conversations about as they walk away from flashing a smile and looking whomever is undressing them with their eyes up and down: not realizing that I want to wear anything, everything, without being looked at like an expensive suit that he’s looking to buy on his first date with the girl that’ll make his heart skip a beat when she’ll first call him “baby.” Or like the porn star who he fantasizes about when they get into a fight and he’s sleeping alone for a while. I’m looking them up and down to read their body language, hoping that, maybe this time, it won’t be so confident and obvious of their one sided intentions.
The one who seduces with a effortless smirk and makes breaking hearts look as mechanical as breathing: not knowing that I smirk because I don’t know how to smile and holy hell what I’d give to genuinely be able to, once. I’d love to even remember the last time that I did and didn’t feel guilty for it. And I wish that I didn’t break a single heart in my lifetime but it seems like the only thing that I’m ever able to reciprocate with my completely septic heart and rotten intentions and terrifying mind.
Babe, do you even realize just what in the hell that you’re asking for? What the fuck that you’re wasting your hours day dreaming about?
I can imagine that when it hits you that this is coming from the girl who “everyone wants,” that I won’t get much sympathy; but baby, I’m not asking for that nor do I need it.
I just want you to be careful what you wish for.
If someone would’ve told me that wishes do come true, I would’ve ran like hell away from all of those 11:11’s and shooting stars and pathetic prayers.
Love, the girl who everyone wants but the girl who nobody loves
I know that he’s bad for me but I will always imagine us together in beautiful places doing everything with passion
But those thoughts don’t make me ache like I ache for the one that I imagine doing the simple things with, because that’s all that he can handle
But it’d be more than enough for me as long as I was with him
I never thought that it would be like this because of the complicated mess that I am
Yet it seems that simple passion is all that I want and all that I regret ending
Not all roses are red
And not every rose has its thorns
But I’ll prick my fingers on every one of yours if you promise to be there to kiss my hands
You see, I’m not a romantic
And I can’t remember the last time that I picked a flower, because I can’t kill something so beautiful
But oh, I could not help myself from trying to uproot you
And you couldn’t help yourself from tugging on me
But you forgot that prying too deeply will end up giving you more than you were pulling for
And there isn’t much satisfaction in picking up something already uprooted, but there is more in being the one who takes care of it and admires it
So I guess that is what you wanted with me
You just forgot that I’ll wilt
And I forgot what it’s like to wake up and smell the roses
So the unfamiliarity got the best of me
I hope that instead of being thrown out, I’ll be pressed into a page that you leave open
Not all roses are red and not every rose has its thorns, but goddamn does the beauty hurt
Maybe I’m just temporary
Even something that needs to be put on hold, you know
Not what I was expected to be
I refuse to say things change
Because I know it’s true
We never are what we once were
Nor will we ever fully know what we will be
And we never really know who we’re talking to
Until it’s 2 years down the line
And you realize they’re not who you thought they were
They gradually changed in your eyes
So roughly smooth that you didn’t even take the time to notice
Yet here we are after 4 years and she’s not the friend I thought she was
And he’s not the boy I thought I liked
And that may not be all bad
But you realize that first impressions can be deceiving
Opening shared ideas are misleading
And maybe I liked you better then
But maybe I fall harder for you now
To be honest, I’m not quite sure what I’m saying.