Why is it that when I told you that I loved you, the first thing you asked was, “Since when?”
Really? Is that the most perplexing thing about the fact that I die a little bit every day looking at your smile, and hope it is the final death because I can’t take it anymore? Does it really matter that much to you how long I’ve been hoping to see the horrid, scarred face of the grim reaper than to see your perfect black eyes and your messy charcoal hair?
Frankly, I’d much rather be anywhere but near you; do anything but see you, because honey, you’re the embodiment of the fact that–much like every spark of happiness and every glimmer of hope that resides in this world–you are never going to be mine.
Falling for you was like falling head first into shards of glass of the beautiful, broken chandelier of our friendship.
And I’ve tried searching for the warmth of your arms in the covers of my blanket, and I’ve tried hating your side gr