I've been staring at pictures of a girl I don't know for over an hour. She's essentially me, but younger, and thinner, and probably easier to talk to. Easier to get close to. She must smile more. She must laugh louder than I do. And she's probably perfect for you. And I think I knew from the day we met that I wasn't, that it would never last past Sunday morning.
Maybe I'm breaking my own heart. Because honestly, I don't think I'd know what to do with contentment if I had it. It doesn't suit me. And honestly, I have an uncanny ability to be disappointed.
So, please forget. I won't look at you with the same eyes. I won't look at you at all. I will look away, from everything, because I'm still the mess they all made me. The mess I'm too tired to clean up.
I wish a different sentiment would come out of my stupid mouth, or my antsy fingertips. In time...
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