what kind of girl is that?
i am this --
i am tap dancing over heart strings and squeezing into ventricles i don't belong in. i am the mess that you, the cause, the effect, has taped together with bony fingers. i am wishing i had the strength to fall apart again, wishing you didn't keep touching me in my dreams, wishing for you to someday wake up and wish for me.
what kind of girl is that?
i am this --
i am counting the cracks on my heart and scribbling your name next to every one so i'll know what boy ruined such a beautiful thing. i am not getting enough of your eyes, your nose, your lips that would graze over mine so innocently, seducing the innocent, and i, incapable of pulling away. i am running after a barefoot boy that doesn't want to be run after, one that wouldn't have ever run after me. i am refusing to listen to his lips, knowing that something so beautiful couldn't possibly be saying something so ugly. i am knowing, knowing things i don't know and knowing that some people are just meant to be alone.
what kind of boy is that?
he is this --
he is pillow fights with his ex girlfriends' hearts and rolling on beds with skinny bodies that i'll never fit into. he is the pain, the source of the heartbreak, along with the beautiful-lipped and pretty-eyed. he is the small-nosed and freckled-cheekboned. he is coughing up disgested, meaningless phrases that start with "i" and end in "you", but we know that those words have never fit together in this context. he is just this disgusting thing.
what kind of love is that?
it is this --
this love is just that girl falling asleep thinking of that boy and that boy is just thinking of anything but.