Hello you bullet shell of a person,
You like listening to “Hand Me Down” by Matchbox Twenty because you like to think it describes you. You poor, 2nd hand, misunderstood, emotional mess. It’s so fun playing the innocent bystander isn’t it?
Poor Harriet. You’re too much and not enough and everyone’s always leaving and you’ve put too much of your life into other people’s universes without thinking about the consequences. It’s easier to be someone else’s equation, someone else’s magnetic force, someone else’s someday than it is to be your own damn everything.
Poor you. You self-inflicted, broken human being. You like writing midnight drafts about how much of an idiot you are for loving people too much and not expecting anything back. You think demanding what you want will make people leave, you think if you stay light and breezy and happy that you’ll finally be the thing they pick first.
Poor you. You absolute idiot.
You’re not a fucking hand me down. You’re not a substitute person, you’re nobody’s second choice.
How can someone so voluminous and loud and flammable make themselves so small just to feel wanted?
Remember the nights you danced through the rain to smoky bars and tight embraces. You splashed through puddles and twirled down light-stained streets- don’t you dare tell me you’re broken. My darling, you watercolour palette of a human being, how dare you wait for someone else to make you feel worthwhile. Don’t you ever cry golden tears over cosmic promises-you are worth more than the tiny piece of infinity they have to offer you.
Remember how hot your words feel when they sit in your throat.
Get explosive. You were born with a gun powder heart and dynamite thoughts.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re a god damn super nova.