Don’t fall in love. You’ll analyze every word they say and the speed in which they text. You’ll stay up late wondering where they are and you’ll go to sleep crying, the night’s they’re not by your side. You’ll let your stomach knot, when you feel them drift away and you’ll let your idea of love, stand in your way of loving.
For the definition of love has mislead us to think, if it’s not dancing in the rain, it’s not love at all. So we wait for the letters, and the Cinderella proposals. We wait, and we wait, and we cry.
So, don’t fall in love with the wrong person, for the right one will never make you wait. Never make you wonder. Life isn’t about someone, it’s about the right one. It’s about silence that feels right, and love that feels easy. It’s about nigts alone, knowing they’ll be back and once they’re back, it’s knowing they’ll stay.
Crazy is hiding behind fluent sarcasm. It’s the distorted reality you lose yourself in, the dilated pupils you look through, the humor you use to dismiss the things that matter most. Crazy is your confidence that you can spend your life fighting the way things are meant to be, the way they’re meant to happen. It’s looking at life with eyes that say run. It’s beauty in ways you can’t understand. You’re running in circles wondering why the view is the same. You’re living your life with simple hopes to get by. You’re cursed with a brilliant mind you live to resent.
Alcohol is a fire burning inside you. It’s blurry vision with sentences of words, all melted into one. It dances on your tongue with the taste of confidence. Stories walk the line of honest exaggeration and fear of rejection is replaced with morning after regret. It’s a spilt vessel of poison, , an illegible message in the bottle, a plea for acceptance, hidden beneath confessions of love and blistered dancing feet.
Alcohol brings out the worst. The emotions, the authenticity, the anger. And when you wake up with a pounding head and queasy stomach, you put on a poker face ’cause you just showed all your cards. You showed people who you really are. The vulnerable, misguided person you’ve spent years building a wall around. You’ve created an image for onlookers, but alcohol will break down the wall and reveal your true self.
I don’t know what you were to me. I don’t know why the alcohol inside me wanted to lay beside you. My restless three a.m’s thought of you. It was something about the night, the forbidden hours, the dark sky.
You confused my actions, the obvious hints of loneliness for desperation. You felt the power. The ability to manipulate me. Now I know you were essential for my greater plan. Pushing me closer to my lessons learned, to the strength I always needed, to the past that stabilized my once unsteady steps. You will always be the one to leave the bed unmade only now; I’ve learned to make a fort from the sheets.
Our teen years fixate on the popularity of the girl with pretty long hair and a drinking problem. The jock like boyfriends that will bend over backwards to hold their books and the instant glamour that can be found when accessorizing with pink. It’s the kind of life we hate to want.
We try to make a normal so far from what we know, but it’s a matter of time before we realize people don’t change, they simply can’t. We can fight who we are for as long as we have the strength but eventually it’s inevitable and we give up the act. The twenties come with a lot of hardships, a lot of obstacles we must overcome but while we’re occupied with the more serious problems in life, we forget to pretend to be someone else. There is no better time to embrace who you really are then a time where no one has a clue.
It’s the kind of pain we didn’t know love had to offer. The kind of love we hate to admit, for the times we saw the destruction, when the pain wasn’t worth the reward, we didn’t put the fire out. Instead, we watched it burn to ashes in a regretful fall out.
When the fall out happened and bitter resentment was strong, your jokes were at me, not to me. You didn’t pick up when I called. You brushed off my problems, my pleas, my maybe I was wrong. I live to wonder if you were worth settling for, but without you I’ll never know. Without you I can’t help but think, the burn from the flame was better then the ashes of us.
Of course we want perfection. We want the best picture, best job, best hair.
But perfection is when you see his crooked teeth beyond the gap of his smile. It’s the scar on your arm from where you fell out of a tree at age eight. The way you hold your fork the wrong way and the phobia you’ve hid for so long. It’s the way your moms voice echoes through the house and the family bickers on Christmas day. It’s the times someone stutters mid sentence, the times you fall asleep on the phone. It’s the way you snore in your sleep when you dream of perfection. But what society won’t tell you, is that perfection is imperfection and imperfection is perfect.
I’m sorry you got caught in the wrath of a troubled, self-destructive girl. I’m sorry you were the one to grab my hand, just as I was falling off the edge. You marked my insecurities and took advantage of my unhealthy habits. You knew how I cringed at the whisper of a compliment. I lost comfort when your hands reached for mine and I surrendered my ability to defend myself, time after time. You used my moments of weakness against me. Insisting I was the reason we would never work. It’s a relief you’re behind me. I know I didn’t lose my prince charming. In our fairytale, you were the Jester and I was simply the joke.
If Taylor Swift had a blog, she would write about graceful movements across the dance floor. Flawless hours making up for past suffering. Watching someone leave before even letting go. She would write about the bittersweet feeling of seeing someone love. The wonder hidden within life. The revenge hidden within words. She would write about the harmony of pastel colours. The complexity of paisley patterns. The therapy in a cup of tea. The glamour of sweatpants. The battle of self-resentment. The relief in self-discovery. The for better or for worse of uncertainty.
She would say love is pain and pain is inevitable. Everyday is a new challenge, a new yesterday. A fate left to zodiac signs. A fate left to if it’s meant to be.
Taylor Swift knows if you fall down and scrape your knee, it’s a good day to wear a skirt for our imperfections aren’t something worth hiding. Our imperfections are the very something someone will one day fall in love with.
Maybe if you didn’t eat that slice of pizza, you’d be skinnier. Maybe if you put out on the first date, he’d be your boyfriend. Maybe if you got an A on that test in the tenth grade, you’d be an honourable scholar. The shirt you worse last Tuesday was hideous, the tweet you thought was hilarious, wasn’t and the text you thought was adorable, was far from.
When we list our flaws and analyze our past, we miss the bigger, the better. We will never accept that our mistakes make us who we are, and maybe we shouldn’t. They don’t always teach us and they don’t always make us better. Our mistakes are exactly that. Our wrong doings, our faults. We should look at our mistakes as the things we take for granted, the things we need to appreciate because to others, our mistakes are something worth aspiring to.