I wish I had stories to tell of us watching the stars and talking about our dreams and what our last thought before we drift to sleep is. I wish we had summer afternoons of jumping off old train bridges into warm summer rivers, and a first date. But instead I have memories I swiped left and deleted. We had a fake relationship with real feelings. At first we never pushed past our age, we were both young so we resorted to sitting by each other in the movies, while our friends two seats away had no clue it was planned. And the second time, I can't even write about it because it still hurts so much. But I still see you, you know, and I know you see me too. I may not be your person anymore, but your still mine.

You will love people
And people won't love you
And people you don't love will love you
You will hurt people
And people will hurt you
And people will hurt
And you will hurt
You will live
You will feel alive
People will make you feel alive
People will make you feel
You will feel
And you won't feel
You will feel loss, and love, and pain,
And you will feel
You will be wrong, while being right
And your life and you will be a contradiction in itself
And you will love people.

I hate clothes. Always have always will. Clothes remind me of what I am not. They force my wondering thoughts to drift and remember that these pants don't fit quite right. I run my fingers across my waist discretely reminding myself that there is more of me here than I desire. Reminding me that you probably see all that I am not. But I desire for you to see ****. Not my body bare and sexualized, but a way in where my millions of masks are destroyed, and all that remains is me, my last years memories, and my this years scars. The things I hide from most I crave to let you explore. I want you to wander my tall forests, and find the bunny trails that I forgot to look for. I want you to dive into my deepest ocean and find the treasure buried underneath the everchanging ground; to look farther than the smallest star you see at night; to put my galaxies back together, and fix my constalations. I want you to find me. I want you to run your fingers down my spine and remind me of how I got that scar; to hold me, in this mess that I am, while our masks lay at our feet, with our clothes scattered in between. **** being all that remains.