Writers let love into insignificant moments, they’re the reason you stay a plague in my mind. Writers let you live longer in their subconscious, where you’ve become my reoccurring dream. You are the crumbling of my self-esteem when your eyes open, nevermore confident than I could be under hue of saturations which seek to hide the fear I have since you’ve forgotten who I am. Do you remember the sly look across the greenery? When I tried my best to impress by covering up the brightness of my own? I felt insignificantly shadowed under the weight of your constellation because I knew it could outshine mine as I hid behind the moon. I never stood a chance against you, and I knew, and it made me sharpen my graphite into pointed edges where you’d become the muse of my words, how they could never be as beautiful. Writing down the things I could never have said as I tripped over punctuations that let the wrong words out. There is safety in the lined paper which I use to write to you, now. They are safe from the scrutiny of your imperial affliction. I am a writer. Words are my beauty. I could write you into a million little infinities, but they’ll never be more poetic than the curve of your shoulders or the speckles dotting your cheeks. They could write more than I ever could in the hopes of garnering your attention.…and maybe I’m not over it because I haven’t written you into my poetry, patched myself up in graphite and tossed you out to sea. I hope you find significantly insignificant moments to remind yourself of who you are and where you were when you stood on the banks of the ocean in which I tossed you into.
— eightieshairstyle, i felt insignificantly shadowed