That part

at the end of the night, when we have to say goodbye. It’s getting harder. The more you speak, the bigger that crack gets. It’ll be like the fissure in The Fall of the House of Usher, and I’ll split apart, but the difference between the story and me is that I’ll be grateful that you made your way in.

There are so many ghosts here in this basement.

Don’t settle, don’t settle. No one has ever said that to me. Because I’ve always.. settled. You say there’s beauty in me that you wouldn’t see destroyed. I didn’t know you were blind. You must be because that’s not what others see. Do you sleep when you wake and dream when you blink? Is something wrong with the way you see the world? Because people look at me and see a monster, but you look at me and think about all the movies you want us to watch together.

I want to look you in the eye, dear one, and tell you to get the hell away from me. But I can’t make decisions for you. I can hardly make them for myself.

I want you to pick me. Like that child who waits and raises her hand, and no one wants to put her on a team because she’s not very good, so she bites her bottom lip and pretends that she doesn’t care, pretends that the tears are from the sharp wind and not the sting of rejection.

Pick me? I’m not a rose, but I think I’m some kind of flower, or.. I used to be. I have thorns.


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