i miss you, not a little,

not so much.

i second-guess what you’re currently doing.

i think i’m a psychic.

i’d love to be one.

i would enter your dreams.

i would love to be felt within your bones,

that would send shivers down your spine.

i hope you still think about me every time you drink water,

to the point that you stopped drinking.

the pens that you bought when we went to buy books —

books i’ll never know when to read —

it’s running out of ink that i am slowly losing my will to live.

it fucking hurts.

i hope we could buy pens again.

you know how much i love writing

i hated when you would correct my grammar.

it was offensive.. and i felt shameful about being a woman.

though i find it attractive.

i hate you.

i love you, i love you, i love you

i love you, i love you, i love you

i miss you

i miss you

i miss you

and you don’t! unfair!

you’re so unfair it makes me want to put myself on fire.

you don’t have any feelings left for me. i hate how you’ve become.

all of a sudden, you don’t know me

all of a sudden, you don’t care about me.

you’re not interested in me anymore,

you don’t even bother reading my stupid fucking blog!

do you hate me? OK.

i wish i could kiss you again.

hug you.

sleep beside you.

hear and feel you breathing.

observe your chest slowly go up and down.

grip your hair,

caress your arm,

and touch your face.

oh, i loved touching your face.

now, i can’t fucking take it off my mind.

do i have to cut off my arms?

do i have to kiss another boy?

i should kiss another boy just to pass time.

i put on make up.

then think of you as i wipe it off,

then think of you in my arms,

or your head resting on my thighs.

i should have given you the paper filled with my kisses.

i put on shit ton of layers of my red lipstick that i hurt my lips.

i hated and loved your touch.

now i just rot in bed because it’s all i think about.

i sleep at midnight cause i think about you more at night.

i don’t care about you in the morning.

you called me angel

you said it’s because i look angelic.

i am not even soft.

perhaps i am sweet,

though i am not sublime.

my beauty isn’t holy.

what do you think will happen once i meticulously craft my entire persona on literature?

writing keeps me sane, you know,

though i am insane once i write one word.

i don’t feel like myself when i write,

or that’s actually who i am.

i am me when i write.

sure you don’t care.

i am not a dancer like you i think i am.

i dance to lana del rey and mitski’s songs.

not to the kpop songs you fucking love.

i could feel art deco’s rhythm and melody

i dance and i match my body to its tune.

i feel like a leaf and the rhythm is the air.

i let it take me wherever it wants.

its melody, rhythm, and tune —

it’s like they’re buried deep within my bones

it’s like they already are right after i got out of my mother’s womb.

does this sound like i am putting on a façade to be noticed?

to be deemed as different?

am i not a cool girl?

whatever.

i guess i should apologize or say thank you because i would not be here if it weren’t for you. some people think that. albeit, i do not think i owe you anything. and you do not owe me anything either.

perhaps i owe you a thank you because now i have an inspiration. and i hate to admit that.