Hopeless
Hopeless romantic. But your assumptions of me are probably only half true. Not just whimsical and gushy, but jagged and dark. Holding hands while growling filth in your ear kinda love. Flowers sent to your work with a note outlining how I intend on fucking you relentlessly when you get home. Giving you both a safe place to share your fears and tender bruises you feel every time you shift in your seat. That kind of hopeless romantic.
Why is this so accurate?

















