there’s no real gold, but this kind is for fools like us who don’t know any better.

you make me feel like the world is ending, so i allow you to smile at me. i let you hug me and ask if i’m okay. i say yes. i’m just tired. but there’s so much i don’t tell you: how your baby blue eyes make me feel like everything is crashing and burning, how when you hug me, i feel like we’ve made a fire in antarctica (something warm in this cold warzone of a world).

stop worshiping young gods, false gods, no god- this place is not a temple.

you are nothing. i want you to be nothing to me. because the last time i felt like this, i got my heart ripped out of my chest by his pretty, stepped on by reality, and spat on by every person who said, “i told you so.” the stars are my hope, and the sad thing is that all of those stars are already dead. maybe it’s troubling to think about it that way, but it’s all that i’ve got. but with these hopes and my fears i can’t be free.

i’ve got petrichor trapped in a bottle, and melancholy in my eyes and they sing hallelujah.*

i tell my friend that i like the way you smell in the morning. for ages i haven’t been able to why. i’ve known you for over a year and only now am i figuring out why. it makes you human. it smells like brand new, clean, and sweat. yes. there’s something beautifully strange in the way your most human attribute is the way you smell after walking to school, but this prison might be the only way i can feel you hold me when you know i’m not okay.