my five year plan
at least once a day, I mistake a boy for a girl. the truth could take five years to write, and I think it probably will. at least once a month, you mistake my "i'm okay"s for "okay, I'm not doing so good"s. this is a matching test. this is a matching test without a word bank. this is sucks-to-be-you-because-you-didn't-study-you-spent-your-night-being-a-manwhore-again. let me know if you're really satisfied with fractions of many girls as opposed to the entirety of me that I'm offering to you.
month three, week two
I'm unsatisfied with my eyebrow arches, my jaw line, my cheekbones, and having someone care so much one minute and completely neglecting me the next. you are an ulcer. you are bipolar. you are a lot like my cup: I thought the grip I had on you was tight enough, but it wasn't. I dropped it. now it's broken.
you fucked my life up. you fucked my life down. you fucked my life sideways, upside down, and on teeter totters, when you teetered lightning bolts