My walls were suddenly coated in the words of Drake and Sin, my empty bottles becoming so very filled with stories. Then, like it was kismet, I went from the halls of my mind to those of the Target poetry aisle, and the universe clicked into place. It almost seemed as if the whole world was gaslighting me, making me feel individualized, erratic, and looked down upon. Until quite recently, I could not find a piece of literature that made me feel contented in these emotions. So I write about it in muddled rhyme that contains little to be praised for. I fall so deeply, sublimely in love with every person who shows me the slightest affection, and then I become afraid to admit it in fear of coming on too strong. I consume period pieces in an attempt to understand the complexities of adoration, and I spin stories packed with eloquence to make me appear wiser than I am. Despite my little experience in the worlds of love and prose, I enjoy pretending that I’ve traversed these realms enough times to be acquainted with them.
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