Let me cut them out.
Let me cut out all the good memories from our story.  
Let me paste them together.
Let me paste them into a collage that shows my happiness.
Happiness I only feel with you.
And hope.
Hope you create in me.

that's it. that's the story.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever love someone the same as they love me.
Will it always be too much or not enough or somewhere in between?
I'm not sure why I have it wrong time and time again.
But I always end up feeling lonely or want them more as just a friend.
Will someone ever love me like I love them?
Will we ever walk down the same path and not have to pretend?
I'm not sure why I have these vices but my grandpa I think had them too. I found poems he wrote on a typewriter, back in '62.
They weren't about love but they rhymed in a way that showed he hurt. If I could only know the memories that lay in his body behind his tobacco smoke-infused shirt.

Is this the good part of me that wants this? Is this the angel or devil on my shoulder?
Do I want it because I’m lazy, I’m spoiled?
Do I want it because I want to be my authentic self?
Or do I want it just because I want to seem like a person who is an authentic self?
Or do I want it to be the best version of me? The one I would have been before the world told me what to be?
Or do I just want to be different and this different isn’t different enough and I want to start over.

But no one seems to ever be able to tell me. Is it brave to quit or is it brave to stay?

I remember sitting on my roof, guitar in hand. Singing songs about love and dreaming about boys I thought I needed. I remember wanting so very badly to be wanted. For him to come over to talk to me.

The fantasy. Where the boy comes over to you because he cannot stay away.

You are irresistible.
You are the only one.
You are different.
Finally.
Someone realized it. Someone saw it. HE saw it. While drinking a chocolate milkshake in that ******* green lettermen’s jacket he wore so well. Sliding in on my side of the booth. My chest and cheeks flush with blood racing to attempt somehow sooth my overloaded brain.

Will life ever get better?
What drug gives you this high?
What experience is this satisfactory?

We all want to be wanted. And the spoiler to the end of this story is, that never changes.

I got a new boy.
He makes me dance to the radio a little more.
I got a new boy.
I’ve started day dreaming a little more.
I got a new boy.
He holds me and says, kiss me a little more.
I got a new boy.
The question is always, will it be forever?