hopeless

Maybe it’s just in America, but it seems that if you’re passionate about something, it freaks people out. You’re considered bizarre or eccentric. To me, it just means you know who you are.

When he says
He doesn’t love you anymore,
Roll your shoulders back
And look him in the eye
Smile
And ask him why he didn’t leave you sooner.
Tell him that there are boys
Who would be proud to say they’d loved you.
Tell him that in two years
You won’t even remember his name
If he did not know how to love you the first time,
He won’t know how to do it the next.

Women are considered fragile but I’ve never seen anything as easily wounded as a man’s ego

Just as some girls always have boyfriends, I was that one girl who never did. I just sat back and listened as I heard story after story of walking hand in hand while watching sunsets by the beach, picnics in the park, first kisses, first dates, first loves. I smiled because I was happy for them. I really was. But the hopeless romantic in me ached, falling apart a little bit more with each confession, each recollection of something that sometimes I think I’ll never have. It’s not their fault. They’re beautiful girls with hearts and minds to match. They have flirty glances, easy icebreakers, and the hard-to-get aura down to a tee. And me? I smile through conversations where I know I can’t contribute anything to except stories that aren’t mine, experiences that I’ve never had. Eventually, I stop attempting to pay attention all together. So I just sit here watching, hoping that one day someone will see my heart and mind that way.