Come on, andrew. You’ve got to give me something to work with
Come on andrerw. I’m not made for these kinds of struggles
Such a delicate thing am I
Such a sensitive thing am I
Come on andrew. I feel like I’m falling apart
I don’t want to blame you
But it’s your fault
Come on andrew. I don’t want to break up
I love you too much
I love us too much
Come on andrew
I always die a little in January.
January, March and November–I die during those months.
I try to keep myself in existence by doing meaningless things.
In January, my form becomes extra delicate.
I’m sensitive to everything and everyone.
That may be why I want to break free from all during that month.
If we start dating in June, by January I’ll be looking for reasons to break up with you.
And yet there is also a neediness in me that I cannot squelch.
A sudden desire to call all my old friends will rise up.
I want everyone to love me in January.
But I have no intention of loving back.
In January, I’m attracted to everything new.
The world seems so old then. I feel so old then.
I want youth, new shiny toys, new superficial people to distract me
In January I am the worst version of myself desperately looking for the best parts just to keep going
It takes everything in me just to keep going