Love is not like anything, especially a fucking knife.

I have a love/hate relationship with my uncontrollable powers of deduction. Lucky guesses. Educated hypothesis.

I intentionally fell upon his past secrets. A shot in the dark. Didn't realize I actually would. And besides the obvious reasons for regretting my "luck", I have a list of reasons to support investing in a time machine.

He is a beautiful writer. Pathetic and vulnerable. His words remind me a lot of my own. They're the trap door I fall through. I am a sucker for the weak. Wanting to cry is my heart's way of telling me I'm starting to love. I knwo it doesn't make any fucking sense. And I like it like that. Because I understand how I work. (For the most part.)

He was what I wanted to make better in the world. He was the rag doll thrown in the corner and replaced. I wanted to give him new stuffing and stitch him back up again. And maybe somewhere in the process, he'd fix me too. I'd fix myself.

"Today, I laid on my bed and waited for my heart to stop beating"

Every cell in my heart wishes that I was the girl to make you stop feeling that way.

I can't keep doing this.
I'm going to go smoke out on the balcony.

See you tomorrow
(or tonight, as the case may be)

--Lauren

[what was ... what will be]