i suck. at most everything. including writing. especially writing. because everything i write is about the way i miss your warmth or the honey golden glow in your eyes. but i'm not a romantic. i should write about how i dress myself up in cobwebs, desperately trying to catch boys that will let me eat their hearts out. my brain thinks fucking is a beautiful dance, but every time someone touches me wrong i break my own legs. where was i going with this. i think about you, is all, and when i do i'm compelled to write clunky poems that will capture how i'm feeling. but the truth is i'm not feeling. i'm just mocking shadows of outdated folklore, pretending to be original. i do think about you. but in the way a lion thinks about it's next meal.