*casually reminds people that there isn’t just rich and poor, there are many varieties of how much you or your family makes and you don’t have to put a label on it bc it’s nobody’s business but your own*
can we stop glorifying social anxiety and that “awkward girl”?
Because it’s not cute or adorable when I can’t even text my friends for the absolute terror that they hate me
and I can’t go to the grocery store on weekends or afternoons because there’s too many people and I can’t function
or that I always panic when talking to anyone new ever at all.
It’s not cute. It’s downright terrifying and I’d greatly appreciate it ya’ll fucking stopped.
I should write about being in love, right?
About how the creases by his eyes came closer together as he smiled. Or how Frida Kahlo couldn’t paint a better pair of lips even if she tried. Maybe even how my fingers fit in between his so perfectly it seemed as if we were molded from the same clay. How his laugh made the whole bed vibrate and how when his big brown eyes locked with mine there was no key to release us. I’ll tell you about how he knew exactly how I like my tea and that I can recite his favorite E.E. Cummings poems by heart. I’ll tell you how we had designated days to stay in bed and how we were able to call each other the meanest names and kiss afterwards.
Maybe I’ll bring up how we were together for 12 years before he was diagnosed. I tell you about the nights in the hospital and how my fear of needles slowly withered away and how the sound of vomiting no longer makes my skin crawl, but rather that was all comforting. They were reminders that he was alive to see another day. But the creases were no longer only next to his eyes, they seemed to have made their way to his soul. His lips became too weak to kiss mine. His hands, much thinner and frail, seemed to be carved from stone.
But his eyes, they remained big and beautiful. I’ve never seen such a beautiful shade of brown. Filled with childish wonder, filled with infinite love. The same shade of chestnut as his coffin.