I'm going to stop this. The truth is I hate writing. I hate feeling. I feel cursed and talentless, and it's annoying.

When I think of her, the very thought of her, I melt into tiny stars. Yes, everything is magical. Because I never thought that an emotion like that existed.

"The teenybopper has lost her bop. the bop in her walk, her pocket bop.

I am completely incomplete with any emotion I put forward. With me, you'd gnaw the edges, and stick a fork in the cold center. How do you keep them from leaving?

As I look back on past words I notice that my contradictions are just as true as the feelings I've had writing them. My heart repeats itself, and I shall remain unapologetic for that.

There's something familiar about the way this tastes, the air that I'm breathing, the timing. I drive around in circles, I call too late, and I cry too much.

By you, I swear that I'm in such a flutter. I have fallen into a moment of pure happiness. She kept me from hell tonight, and I am so thankful. My lips did not know of one drop tonight.

For the rich girl that ran away to love a very poor girl living on the streets with holes in her sneakers. They slept under bridges, loved for a very long time, and called in quits on a park bench.