//this makes me cringe and ugh and kind of want to cry a little//

It’s lethal
To grow up with your fingers curled
In the strands of a boy’s hair
As he looks at you, and you’re convinced
That every unwinding notion seeping out
Of fairytales and fallible fiction will come true only
For you;
Because those little lapses in judgement
Will become an unfortunate habit
Causing you to plummet to someplace
Deeper than what Plath once described
through her words, which you believed so
Sincerely, as if you knew they were meant only
For you;
A little part of you saw how words could deceive
But how do you say no to something
That’s perennially helped you breathe?


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