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In the Light of My Insignificance

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I reason at the brink of narcissism. This happened as a result of that , which only happened because they hated me, which goes back to the trauma from  this— Some might call it manifestation. If I think negative things, negative things will happen. Others call it karma—I deserve every inconvenient thing that comes my way. I suppose I believe that too; that's why I often ask myself, "What did I do to deserve this?"  Where is the logic in thinking that a Domino's delivery driver backed into my brand-new motorcycle because I did something that upset the universe? Or that the person I loved most only fucked other people because my anxiety dared him to? It's honestly pathetic to think myself relevant—that the stars could feel offended on an elitist's behalf. To worship my guilt and make my suffering proof that the universe has a conscience—is that not a mirage?  It's not spiritual to align yourself with the cosmos. It's selfish to think that your mindset—y...
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Marigolds

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Marigolds were my favorite flower, but now they're a metaphor for the short-lived—and that's exactly what we were. Within a week, the petals withered and blight consumed each stem. I wish I'd thrown us out with them. I didn't because I'm not a victim, not this time. You did nothing wrong—I guess that's why I never fell in love with you. I'm masochistic that way—I only love when it nearly kills me. You didn't try, but we died anyway. One could say that we were incompatible, but we really did spend the best time together. I guess we were just incommunicative, despite the fact that we communicated every day, but never in ways that mattered.  You have this twisted idea of forever—that someone in this world owes you any satisfaction. You talk about commitment, but the only thing you're committed to is this notion that you're worth someone's life. You're not. The truth is, you'll never know the soul behind his lips. You don't even see h...
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I Like Your Name Because It Rhymes with the Moon

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I like your name because it rhymes with the moon. Do you even know mine? Or am I just the barista who's too young to be writing you love letters? I like your name so much, I remind people how to say it just to say it more. Did you ever tell anybody mine? Or was it just a happening—an encounter in passing—that I admired you from afar before I admired you from across the table. I remember that your birthday is August 23rd, which makes you a Virgo, a virgin woman. Mine is March 9th and I'm a Pisces, two fish in one. Your favorite flower is baby's breath, which I find to be unique. Mine is a marigold, if you ever wondered.  I know that you're sensitive. You don't like reminiscing about good times because they're gone. You tear up when you miss your family, I saw it. And sometimes, you feel like you're behind—like you're not where you should be in life. I think you hide behind self-development because you're scared to be seen vulnerable. But that's wh...
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