your mom is named mom…my mom is named mom… dude don’t freak out but i think we’re related
I tend to dream about the person I want to become, and I realized, maybe I only ever dream about her because, I can’t actually be her. I mean, I’ve already faced my biggest fear, that life doesn’t turn out like literature. I would never be the girl with moon kissed skin, rose colored lips, and eyes like dark velvet. I would not stumble into words like alluring, or pulchritudinous in real life when people described me. I would not find myself on his book shelf, a photo album of just my pictures, or just my letters. I would not be the last name on his lips or the fire underneath his shoes causing him to be better. I would not be spoken about like poetry, or remembered like Sylvia. I would not be looked at like the moon and stars or read like a favorite novel. God, my bed should be a graveyard, I’ve killed many dreams there.
Never apologize for burning too brightly or collapsing into yourself every night. That is how galaxies are made.