Blue collar white noise.

perfectIt’s called “effort”; and I think I believe in it’s existence too much.

It’s not driving 3 blocks to trace the outline of my roommates or going Dutch on an overpriced cupcake.Effort is not 2-syllable answers.It’s not receiving intercepted kisses or partaking in empty apologies.

Slut-calling, drunk-texting, teeth-clashing, blatant flirting. None of it is real, none of it has feeling.

It’s just noise. Blue collar, white noise.

sweet

Effort is 11 pm rapping and Frank Ocean warbling. Effort is flying 5 hours to see your favourite person and then sobbing into stripes on the way home. It isn’t space, it doesn’t give up after 6 months. Effort is face-to-face conflict, it’s fighting about honesty, it’s hugging on the floor of a club, it’s phoning someone you used to hate, it’s music-swapping, beautiful, incredible, impossible effort.

And I want someone to look at me. Look at me and take in all my flaws, all my quirks, every single freckle on my face and every time I wrinkle my nose or smirk. Every time I stumble over a nervous word, every time I spill food, every time I hunch my shoulders.

I want them to study me in my entirety and make an effort.

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