Isn’t love a flame that never dies, it may flicker but should never die.
It shouldn’t dull. It should be fierce, intimate and bold.
Bold love, where did you go? Did you fall into the depths of my heavy heart or did you drown in my head weeping for help?
Did you cry out to me and I was too busy minded to look past the ocean and see your shape cringing?
Did you smile upon me before and are now just dancing across my memory?
Oh the woes of love, the new and the old.
The old is not a weed but a desert rose that takes years to produce, but it is the best kind of flower.
It’s patient, kind. Love should be patient, kind.
The new, oh the new, it is the rose you wear so fiercely.
Does the best kind of love take time to bloom or does love grow fast, go fast and lives fast?
Love, the woes of love, how will I ever choose between a desert flower and a rose?
How do you compare two different loves as if the choice you make can be reversed.
Love, the woes of love.
I feel like I’m in a dream, where I trust everyone and everything and in this Utopian fantasy, there he is and not my own insecurities. How will I ever tell him my past though? Will he accept me or will I just crumble in his hands as he gives me the look of bewilderment and disappointment because I’m not who I said I was or I’m pretending to be? I don’t want to mess this up. I really like him. My past will catch up to us and I’m racing it, I’m winning right now… now. Through all of my insecurities and self-loathing, he’s there but blind to it. He knows the real me, the me that I have fought hard for but he has to know the past me, she’s not dead yet. She will come back with a vengeance to spill all my secrets.
Welp, you heard my rant…
My dash is just a little bit freaky today.
Merry Christmas :)
That moment when you leave your iPhone at best buy and your mom gets there before you and is WAITING for you. Fuck.