Life awaits those who wish,
although it's not a subtle dish,
through light and dark we travel,
sometimes the purpose unravels,
stitch the seams and mend the hems,
as your life travels another bend,
on it goes and as it flows,
the more you have to show.

Real grief is not shared nor uttered.
Real grief is bottled and fermented in it's host.

I can't name or count how many guys I've looked at approvingly thinking 'I'd love to **** him' or whatever people say when they give that approving eye glance and nod thing. Of course I do it. All the time. I'm eighteen for gods sake. I can look!

However,

I can count all the guys I've genuinely fancied on both hands.

I can count the guys I've really liked on one hand.

I can count the guys I've kissed on *******.

I can count the guys I've actually called my boyfriend on one finger.

But that is not the man I love.

None of them are.

Because he's not a statistic.

He's a part of my soul.