You can make a decision to love someone. I’m not saying I did this, but old exercise books have eligible men’s names drawn inside of hearts and popularity drove it, made it happen. It wasn’t a fateful, no choice in the pick, but an attractiveness scale and girl group to impress. They thought they were The Spice Girls. A tribute act doesn’t have to even look like the original, going by the ones I’ve seen, but maybe that’s England all over.
You were a decision in word only so I made a moat and rewrote cards I’d already written so you’d think my words weren’t meaningful.
What I know I suppress, and it’s only in the dreams I reveal my bent bra hooks to you and the hanging threads from my one pound Primark pants. And I want a worse judgement, to put-off, but yours is a fascinated face and when I wake up, I sense the wait in the seconds the clambering would’ve taken and I want to dream-learn, to dip into the memories of the dreams I did have. Instead, I end up in the ones I’m already dead, getting ready to die again, pursued, consistently, by the mighty and wrong.