I don't do this.
Sit up at midnight and pretend I'm capable of putting my feelings down.
Capable of stringing them into something beautiful when really: they're just ramblings of a ***** teenage girl who can't go after what she wants.
Who she wants.

I don't do chest pains when the realization of your absence is as lucid as my lack of fear of death.
A preeminent death that you made so frivolous with the warmth of your smile,
The lust in your touch.

I don't do relentless memories.
Memories of your hands on my hips, your sighs in my mouth and my skin under your nails

I don't love this hard. I hope you understand.