i once heard that love is meant to die and will, if you let it. and it is.
love was always cruel.
oh god. i think if you punched me in the stomach or looked at me with the least bit of concern in your eyes, i would never be able to stop crying.
you know when your heart aches because you like someone, but you don't know anything about him or her. i like a boy with eyes like the sky.
these are my writings for the day:
i am sitting diagonally across from this kid, this boy in muddied blue jeans, grass-stained shoes, and a bright blue shirt. i am sitting diagonally from this boy with golden brown hair who finished organizing a set of biblical cards, rearranging and rubber-banding Matthew, Mark, John..., fifteen minutes ago. i am sitting diagonally to a boy with large hands and deep, brown eyes that are concentrating, focusing on the tens of hundreds of words his pencil is outlining. his pencil has no eraser.
who am i sitting near in study hall? with the white lights and sonar of discmans and ipods, muffled giggles, the shruggs of an old, irritated teacher. it's you. it's you.
1..2..3...4..5..6...7.. i am counting how long it takes you to make a mistake, to realize that you've made one. amid your words and letters and apostrophes, your hand disobeyed your mind...or did your mind disobey your hand?
i hate you.
oh god. i think if you punched me in the stomach or looked at me with the least bit of concern in your eyes, i would never be able to stop crying.
you know when your heart aches because you like someone, but you don't know anything about him or her. i like a boy with eyes like the sky.
these are my writings for the day:
i am sitting diagonally across from this kid, this boy in muddied blue jeans, grass-stained shoes, and a bright blue shirt. i am sitting diagonally from this boy with golden brown hair who finished organizing a set of biblical cards, rearranging and rubber-banding Matthew, Mark, John..., fifteen minutes ago. i am sitting diagonally to a boy with large hands and deep, brown eyes that are concentrating, focusing on the tens of hundreds of words his pencil is outlining. his pencil has no eraser.
who am i sitting near in study hall? with the white lights and sonar of discmans and ipods, muffled giggles, the shruggs of an old, irritated teacher. it's you. it's you.
1..2..3...4..5..6...7.. i am counting how long it takes you to make a mistake, to realize that you've made one. amid your words and letters and apostrophes, your hand disobeyed your mind...or did your mind disobey your hand?
i hate you.