I’m quite disappointed in myself,
because all I ever have to show for my supposed beloved writings can be chalked up to a pile of sugar-coated, overly-analyzed, exaggerated, (quite pathetically so!) melodramatic infatuation from a stupid girl who casts a boy as her sun in her ever-revolving solar system of sentiments.
It really is quite pathetic,
because I am a deep, competent, sentient human being with opinions and revelations and insights on volumes of topics because I always seek out knowledge and I always attempt to dig deeper into the story than a mere brush against the surface.
And all you ever get to know of this deep, competent, sentient human being with opinions and revelations and insights is that she wants to feel the love from someone other than her platonic fistful of friendships at every measurable instant of her existence.
I contemplate the pursuit of happiness. Life after death. The reasons people must always justify themselves for doing what they want. Aliens. Occular dominance. The breeding rituals of sea slugs.
And all that I actually get down onto the pages is how the curve of his smirk sends me swooning seven years into the future.
But ******, I have something to say
Yet would you know that by peering into my journals? Read up on one of my latest poems—go on ahead.
It’s still about a boy.
They all are.