Romantic Eleven

I idolised.

Bible knowledge cursed it. Jesus: boyfriend, best, only. You smoked more than he does. Smoke. Did.

Replay gagged.

When someone wants you back but they leave it like literally 6 days late, when you’ve agonised about the move on, haven’t fucked another yet.

Lick tips, cigarette butts, his mixed with Terese’s, Bill’s. Guess. Ingest like Smints.

?????????

You Don’t Make These Decisions Yourself

Some decisions are group, joint, collected opinions, like the compiled works of a semi-famous poet you’d rather pick and choose from, but how convenient, handy. The value.

You didn’t believe in evolution until this moment and looking down at your ambitiously sized shirt, skimming boots, you see how change for the better is observed after and not everyone likes the world being round, not all believe it. Some people think that cliffs, rocks, are six thousand years old, erase dinosaurs like they’re a movie, theme park, out of favour with the world’s kids now.

You couldn’t marry someone who didn’t see the value of Steve Carell, thought Radiohead’s career ended in the nineties. Underestimation’s an aphrodisiac, you work until it takes shape like pinched pie rim. You see the potential in people, they don’t see, likely dormant until they’re dead, but you’re hopeful for discoveries, fumbles with impressive looking men in the bedsits lived in only until they hit big. This is not Sex and the City. How many disappointing people do you have to sleep with until you see all your decisions are wrong?

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