three whole months since i’ve gotten any new hate mail? wowee it must be my birthday
i can’t stop comparing you to music in my head. it’s driving me insane, eating me up because for a long time music was the only thing no other person could get close to, it was the most protected part of my existence because back then, no matter what, nobody could ever be as good as music. it was a guilty, but comforting arrangement and until you, that was just what it was.
now i compare every facet of us to every facet of music in my life. like music, i had known you for quite some time and barely noticed what you meant until all at once it and you came crashing through that thin glass dome around my thoughts and changed my life forever.
our fights and pains only make the love stronger, as i am reminded of the gnawing hunger i carried with me for two years in pursuit of music. a pain that reminded me how much the love was worth. when i am up late at night because we’ve hit another rough patch, in the back of my head the love grows steadily stronger.
touching the knobs on my controller i’m reminded of the curves of your shoulders, digital parameters mimicking the unlikely perfection of human structure. beats on the radio catch my eardrums and beat them softly til i’m in a trance, surrounded by hazy memories. we’ve done so much in these past 6 months, but have we really done anything at all? i can’t figure, but i feel different.
everything about this feels very different from everything except music, and i can’t get that out of my head.
bisexual guys are assumed to be secretly gay
bisexual girls are assumed to be secretly straight
both are assumed to secretly like men
see what i’m getting at?
“I’ve never seen a diamond in the flesh” just makes me want to drag Lorde to a natural history museum
Like girl, they have diamonds AND dinosaur bones AND meteorites
The Hunger Games drinking game: bring a fifth into the theater. take a drink everytime someone dies or something gets set on fire. the goal of the game is to survive.
i’m afraid of being too poetic with you.
we connect so well but at times it feels we’re speaking different languages.
peering at eachother through the leaves, unable to reveal ourselves fully but unable to run away.
i still feel the heat in my chest seeping into the limbs like a tree burning from the inside out. something about your skin against mine, on the tip of my tongue like the pages of things i failed to say. even when you’re not around and we’re in the middle of one of our rifts, there is the same shameless, honest need to breathe you in and fall asleep beside you. it drives me insane.
i’m afraid of being too poetic with you because i’m creating art for you, and creating for someone in particular is a very intimidating thing to start doing without intending to.