confessions

Confessions

When I was five, I asked my parents how often people marry their preschool crush.

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confessions

Do you want me?

I don’t eat pickles anymore. I’m paying for cable in my apartment and even Spotify without the ads. I’m playing around with squeezing from the bottom of the toothpaste tube.

Well, I do eat pickles on occasions. Just not at home. Just not at home often. But I am washing my retainer more often. And I do regret not traveling with you when you had that long break. And I never told you this, but I conceded a long time ago to learning to live with a dog to the best of my abilities. I think you’d have to pick up the poop though. 

And I miss your belly button lint. I’ll try to wake up earlier, wake up before you now and again and go to sleep earlier, too. I want to try. 

confessions · sad

She who wakes

I let friends keep me out until 3, now I’m awake, and they’re sleeping. Lying in bed, trying not to stir to rouse them, the world feels most silent, but there are birds pecking at the window. It’s the loneliest time: when you alone are in a state of consciousness, your consciousness a world of one, and all the fellows of your life are together, without you, in a most peaceful state.
This paradigm drives my adult relationships: each morning, someone plays the roused one, and someone plays the slumbering one. There’s nothing lonelier than waking up in a world of one, yet someone must wake up in a world of one.

confessions · happy

It slippedĀ 

“I don’t hate you, I love you,” I said comforting him in response to his jest, the sounds sliding off my lips before I even knew what words they would form. The flow was uninhabited, unplanned, unexpected.
In reaction to their sound, I giggled guiltily, a little girl reacting to the admission of dirty words. As the moment raced by, I looked up at the mirrored wall and caught the end of his laugh in his reflection.