Confession:
I don't really care about love.
Confession:
I was going to say something directly to you, but I don't know if I truly want to or if I just want to make another grand entrance into your life (and fuck it all up again), so I'll say it and you can wonder the way you always do. There's only one me for you, no matter how many people you try to put in the place I carved into you. The feeling isn't mutual and there are always rules. Wanting you doesn't mean I miss you.
Confession:
Missing you doesn't mean I want you.
Confession:
I wish people would write about something else.
Confession:
I'm waiting desperately for you to make the first move.
Confession:
I've never been so torn between the nothing that has something and the everything that has nothing.
Confession:
My ambition is slow to rise and hard to put down.
Confession:
I wish I bruised easily. What a strange coincidence that the injuries of the surface can no longer be found.
Confession:
I forgot about both of you, and I am so god damn sorry.
Confession:
I felt better knowing where you were than not knowing where you went.