If this is burning my life to the ground, then okay. Fire extinguish me. Especially if you know what’s best for me. I’m going to assume that you do.
The advice you’ve cheese fries dished out with lashings of BBQ sauce, is it what you’d want to hear in this exact dilemma? Would you hope for a stock drawer answer, or an inspirational meme, or a worn out platitude that didn’t even work on TV?
Because if I’ve learnt one thing, it’s this: advice is lint.
Seriously, shit. And even professionals, who I total value, if they’d said the opposite of what the underside of my heart says, the really crappy layer, like old tyres with no grip, I’d ignore it. Because no-one knows my nerves like me.
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.