I lost myself and tried to pretend I found it in a boy
I put a bandaid on every cut he made
But that wasn’t enough to stop my heart from bleeding out
They say some people are born to be sad
But I don’t want to jump off the Brooklyn bridge at 37
I’ll wipe his name off the chalkboard
And wonder how life ever got this bad
And I’ll smoke cigarettes with his roommate
And tell my friends I never feel like enough
I fell in love with a lame boy two years ago
He knew I was moody but he never bothered to ask why
even though that was never what I really needed
And I’ve realized I really don’t care
Not in the least
I haven’t quite found myself
But I know it was never in him
Some people are meant to change us
Some people are just here to teach a lesson
I wish him the best
But it’s mostly because I just don’t care anymore

“‘Do you consider yourself a writer?’ my friend once asked me. I thought about it for a bit. Do I really have the right to call myself one? I’ve put a few words on paper here and there. I’d like to think one day I will be. I’d like to think I look at the world with the perspective of a writer, but do I qualify? I answered ‘Yes, I suppose I do, but I think the truth is, we are all writers. We all have words bubbling up from inside of us. We all see the world in a different but still very poetic way. I think some people choose to share it. Write it down. But we are all writing stories, in one way or another’”