lately

lately I’ve been more angry with you than anything else. I’m a little sorry. But not as sorry as I usually am. Maybe I’m not sorry. But I’m still in love. It’s just that I know, I know, I know I told you you’re the light. And you are. You are. You are. It’s just that right now I’ve got a headache and I’m angry and, well, I don’t feel like basking in you. Not anymore. Not while I feel the burn. And I do. It burns. You burn. Then I get more angry because I know you’d just say I should’ve known better. I mean, look look look at all those freckles. Right? But then I remember again. I’m always remembering. How there was more to that. There was always more. Cause then I’d say I hate them. Those freckles. And you’d say you loved them. You’d say you know you’re the prettiest girl in the world. You know, you said that when I met you. But you also said it when I left you. Or you left me. Or made me leave. God I just, I hate burning in the sun. I’m angry again thinking about how you’d still blame me. That you do blame me. For not knowing better about you. About how you’re not the sun. How you’re no good. How I should’ve known known known. But I’m not wrong. I never was. You see, your light still fucking blinds me. But guess what? It’s still there. You’re still light. You’re still the fucking sun—my sun. My July sun. But you fucked me over pretending I’d live under your warmth for every season when you just liked the way I slowly burned at the sight of you. But as for you? You’ll always be the sun. And for me? I’ll always be the only woman that loved you are your darkest.

So when you dim again—you will look look look across the entire fucking universe and will see me again. Except, by then I’ll be loved by another man who knew when I met him that I deserved every fucking planet.

(This one is Meghan)