I am not writing this piece because I want attention, pity, or remorse. I am writing for those who did not make it, for those people who didn’t have the support system I have.
It hurt, a little. But not the bitter kind of hurt. It’s more of an “Oh, they just did that. Nothing can stop them now” kind of hurt.
When you are in love you don’t see things for what they are, you look for the good in the other person.
When you approached me, my first thought was, I hate his sweatshirt.
With a deep, shaking breath, I shoved both tests back into the box and then stuffed the entire thing into the depths of my bag, as if the deeper it went, the less likely I was to have to deal with the problem.
Like a foolish, foolish girl, I believed him and even agreed to get intimate with him.
I know it’s all in my head but I have lost the map to try to get out of my head. I hit dead ends so often and have to turn back and try again. This maze is so complicated
Searching inside for a more vivid truth. I jump off the page to find nothing around I turn the page with harrowing despair to find a sheet that is most verbose.
There is no more mystery, no more to learn, nothing more to seduce out of each other.
I wish it would have worked. I wish that somehow my feelings would be reciprocated and we could write our own story.