Dear F,
The scrapes on my heart are red, the interior is blue, what a shame the insides of my eyelids are cursed with the sight of you. I know this isn’t special as this feeling always comes and goes, but I guess I must be stupid since your laugh heals all my woes. The voices in my head say I’ll regret you and I know I know it’s true, but which people live inside your mind at night is not up to me or you. If I listen closely I can hear someone warning me not to open up and trust, but it’s hard when I am in love with a siren who’s every word fills me with anti-lust. I want to hold you closer than anyone I’ve ever cared about before. But the familiar taste of fear says to remain longing a little more. A battlefield is what I’m living on and you’re making all the moves, so maybe I’m a masochist for liking how I lose. This next part isn’t cute but sometimes I think that love is fake. Yet I doubt myself again as I think of you each time I wake.
Love you the most,
- IP







