Return to September 29, 2005 (person)

An [ode] to those who steal my heart.

Your dumb [Hot Topic] clothing and [methamphetamine|evidences of frequent drug use], from both how you conduct yourself in [stutter|casual conversation] and your appearance, captivate my heart in ways poets can only [Song of Songs|dream of.]

Your affinity for shirts with slogans like "[I used to be schizophrenic, but we're okay now]" and "[you laugh because I'm different; I laugh because you're all the same]" sends waves of revulsion through my body, as I imagine holding you and feeling so overwhelmingly warm and at peace.

Your overdone black [eyeliner] etches scars into my heart. Your habit of spelling "[fairy]" as "[faerie]" is cuter than I can possibly form into words.

Your failed attempts at justifying cutting happy faces, pot leaves, and ICP iconography into your wrists with sharp objects as a method of dealing with "[Hello, I take Zoloft. I am so gloriously mentally ill! You will love me, yes? ?|depression]" is a clash of the titans; my [gag reflex] against my nonsensical obsession with you.

Your awkward interactions with my friends and others makes me smile a weak, awkward smile in my heart of hearts, while observing you trying to seem "super crazy" or "freakish" by saying [spooky|offsetting] things such as "[I like dead things]."

Your hair, which is an amalgamation of four thousand different colors, is a riotous vomit of hues inside my daydreams of us in a movie theatre. Your fingernails are caked with black nail polish, which has since started to crumble, just like my heart when I look at your [webcam|pictures] on the internet.

Your lame, [alarmist] life, rife with hormones, misguided anger, and [bad teenage poetry|angsty, crappy poetry] send spirals of joy, color, and [amour] throughout my body.

You are destined for failure, and you will probably end up pregnant by your junior year of high school.

Your previous relationships have always been abusive (according to what you tell me), and [emo|you are convinced that you can never "love" again], and I grin sheepishly, knowing you're going to forget about all of that when we're sharing a kiss.

I can see through your pretenses, and your facade of despair. You are mediocre. You are uninteresting, and are about as intelligent as a bag of hair.

[I want so much to be a part of your life.]

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