you write such pretty words…but life’s no storybook. love’s an excuse to get hurt.

I keep wanting to be different but I’m really starting wonder if we’re all just the same. I’m just another girl with a pretty face. It makes me so lonely sometimes. Wondering if I’m worth it, if I’m worth anything at all. Oh beautiful boy, you used to call me Darling. You used to call me Darling. I shared your bed and we slept beside each other that night. You turned 20. We woke up often and silently rearranged to cuddle closer together before falling back into sweet slumber. Your bare chest rising and falling against my cheek. And your arms around me. Waking up to your face and your warmth and oh. Oh, what a feeling.

This shouldn’t have to end like this. I remember it beginning. Myspace. A message. My girlish excitement and the way he gave you my number. We texted. And you invited me over. That night in the park, you gave me your jacket. It was too big and warm and smelled like you and leather and smoke and it was wonderful. And you touched my skin and we tickle fought and yes, it was happy, magical, puppy loveliful. I was giddy with so much newness and happiness and boy-ness. I just…oh you.

I don’t know what you’re afraid of. I don’t know what you’re pushing away. I just want to hold you. To make you food and pay your bills and keep you warm at night. I just want to help you find the way to be happy. To smile. To be free from this demon of depression that stalks you.

~ by missyuri on August 4, 2009.