"The past is a story we like to tell ourselves"
And wow do I ever have a fucking story to tell myself. And all I do nowadays is tell myself my story. There is no more writing; the epic novel is complete - completed right before the epic downfall. Why forge ahead? Why persevere and deal with all the bullshit, mundane or not. Why pretend. Why act happy. Why act content. Who am I fooling? Me. I am fooling me and I am sick of it. Fuck this and Fuck you.
I don't remember what time of year it was, but it was amazing outside. A warm, breezy afternoon. Barnes Park by the young Willow tree. A grassy mound off the concrete path. The sun blazing behind my house on the hill shown so brightly against your young, innocent skin. We both knew it was coming - our first kiss. Ever. Eyes closed, all I can remember is the softness of your chin. Your cheek. Your nose. Pause. Your lips - the softest of all. When we had each had our fill of being dazed, I slowly walked you across the street to the library where your dad would soon arrive. As our hands parted, still reaching for one another, you told me you loved me. The words igniting and flooding my insides with something absolutely indescribable. I love you too.
Back to our grassy abode. It is a few months later and troubles have already stained purity. But we are here, together. You are wearing my favorite light blue skirt, your zebra-striped panties visible underneath as you explain to me you do not know how to sit like a woman. To me, you are a woman. My first love. My true love. The rest will always be compared to you.
Six months and twenty one days later, we walk slowly, hand-in-hand towards the school's double-doors. You squeeze my limp hand, hoping for a response, a sign that I still love you. I still love you. I was so stupid then. I remember giving you some lame excuse of why we cannot be together anymore. I watched it in your eyes - watched myself break your heart as I pretended not to care.
Why did I give you up. To this day, regret is still the greatest tragedy I have ever experienced. Now you are gone. Not so much physically, but mentally - a beautiful shell of your beautiful self. I hope wherever you are, you are happier than I am. I hope you don't feel regret. I hope you have the strength to act on what you want. I hope you still hope.
And wow do I ever have a fucking story to tell myself. And all I do nowadays is tell myself my story. There is no more writing; the epic novel is complete - completed right before the epic downfall. Why forge ahead? Why persevere and deal with all the bullshit, mundane or not. Why pretend. Why act happy. Why act content. Who am I fooling? Me. I am fooling me and I am sick of it. Fuck this and Fuck you.
I don't remember what time of year it was, but it was amazing outside. A warm, breezy afternoon. Barnes Park by the young Willow tree. A grassy mound off the concrete path. The sun blazing behind my house on the hill shown so brightly against your young, innocent skin. We both knew it was coming - our first kiss. Ever. Eyes closed, all I can remember is the softness of your chin. Your cheek. Your nose. Pause. Your lips - the softest of all. When we had each had our fill of being dazed, I slowly walked you across the street to the library where your dad would soon arrive. As our hands parted, still reaching for one another, you told me you loved me. The words igniting and flooding my insides with something absolutely indescribable. I love you too.
Back to our grassy abode. It is a few months later and troubles have already stained purity. But we are here, together. You are wearing my favorite light blue skirt, your zebra-striped panties visible underneath as you explain to me you do not know how to sit like a woman. To me, you are a woman. My first love. My true love. The rest will always be compared to you.
Six months and twenty one days later, we walk slowly, hand-in-hand towards the school's double-doors. You squeeze my limp hand, hoping for a response, a sign that I still love you. I still love you. I was so stupid then. I remember giving you some lame excuse of why we cannot be together anymore. I watched it in your eyes - watched myself break your heart as I pretended not to care.
Why did I give you up. To this day, regret is still the greatest tragedy I have ever experienced. Now you are gone. Not so much physically, but mentally - a beautiful shell of your beautiful self. I hope wherever you are, you are happier than I am. I hope you don't feel regret. I hope you have the strength to act on what you want. I hope you still hope.
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