things were a lot simpler when i was younger and content to stew in my yearning
but all of this seems too much now.
too theatrical, too pretentious
who are you to write these words?
to be lovelorn was easy without the faces of clocks burning holes into the back of my neck
each tickticktickticktick echoing in my ears, counting down to what i keep trying to forget
everything was a poem, a novel, a letter 
a fantasy to spin inside my head
but when does it become tragic rather than charming,
the type of hero i was meant to be.
what is wrong with me, with these hands
and how they cannot manage to get a grip on anything tangible 
only grasping at silhouettes that i wanted to see in the smoke
for the first time in a long time, i'm thinking that something is just not meant for me
i dont get to have these things that the other people do
no, i dont know what its like to be you, with your countless lovers and perpetually warm bed and guiltfreenostringsattachedwithbenefits and ability to just do whatever(whoever) you want without shame lingering in the corners of your head.
i string bows and shoot down birds that suspiciously look like girls, and if you ask me for a kiss i'd give you a thimble.
i don't know how to get what i want.
if it exists, if i'm allowed to have it.

all of this to say i keep missing milestones and i'm scared to die in sixty years at the age of twenty-three.

but otherwise, i'm doing alright.
abby