Cigerettes

There was this girl, and she had to be the best at everything. If she wasn’t the best, at something, she didn’t want to do it at all.

She gave up a lot.

It’s easier to give up and self-indulge in the pain of imagining what you could have been if only you had tried, than to try and try and try until your knuckles bleed, and sweat pastes you hair to your head, only to find out you weren’t worth shit.

It’s easier to live in dreams and could-have-beens.

No failure, only evaporated potential.

“When you bite your lip it makes me want to fuck you”

What is this “real life” you all speak of? I don’t know what real life is. You can sit in class and watch The Little Mermaid, when you’re six, when you’re twenty-five. 

The only real people that I know ride the bus. They don’t smile. They have to stand, and walk, and bend, and shift. Like real life. Like how I was told real life would be.

Th only real people that I know are in construction. They bend, and lift, and breath hard, breath deep. 

They don’t think about things that don’t matter,they don’t dream about things that won’t be. They just live, and it’s real, and beautiful.

There was this girl, and she was afraid of everything. Of boys, and girls, and love, and sex, and getting lost, and looking foolish, and failing, and succeeding past the point of there being someone to follow. She was afraid of standing out and blending in, and hugs, and kisses, and long books, and scary movies, and real life, and change.

So she gave up.

On one thing after another.

She’ll try not to give up on you, but don’t hold her to anything.

She spends her days playing pretend. (It’s sort of like giving up) 

Hydrangeas and heels.

With those, you’re someone braver and greater and more worthy.

Validate the Ordinary.