Flowers in my Hair

Dating in your twenties is weird. 

It’s lonely, loud, new, and fun. 

I highkey don’t think it’s for me though. 

I don’t want lukewarm love. I don’t want safe love.

I want to drown. Because if I’m not six feet deep, I have no desire for it. 

I think I like people too much or not at all. I sometimes wonder what the whole point is. For people to love so much they break. To go from dreamers to realists. From partners to actors overnight. 

Things are no longer the same and I hate you for it. It’s all your fault. I no longer see it as mine. I no longer want you.

But how does this work? What steps do I take to move forward?

It can’t end just like that. But it did. Summer only lasts a season and you were telling me this from the beginning.  I should’ve listened.

I’m ripping off the skin that touched yours. I am who I’ve always been and I love becoming me over and over again. 

She’s not perfect but I hope she’s lovely. 

You would’ve hated the way she drives to work. You would’ve loved the way she’s quiet. You would’ve hated her inability to hide, yet you would’ve loved her ability to move on. 

My English teacher says that, if he writes me a few sonnets, he loves me. And if he writes me 300 sonnets, he loves sonnets. 

I think about this a lot. I think about how nothing is as it seems when you’re in it. You only see it for what it was when you’re out of it. 

But reeling it back to the beginning I think I have the right to hate someone for what they did, but I can still love them for who they had been. 

Because I know now that my ability to love never came from them but from me.