i wish i could go back in time and retract every single confession of love to every person i have ever given it to. it’s all too painful—always have been. it’s easy to wake up and pretend that the wounds were never there, but lift the bandage and it’s still there, small stings blooming like flowers with all the wrong movements. i’m tired of writing about these beautiful people and watching them and wanting to understand them. i’m tired of falling in love with all the wrong people, i’m tired of getting all the wrong people try to fall in love with me. it’s just this weird, draining cycle, where at the end of the day i’m facing a bottle and whatever i can get my hands on.