In my heart will always be the five of us, stripped.
The cute one, the pretty one, the one that's going to hit it big, the one that already fucked up. The one that had spread rumors about me, the one I had spreaded rumors about; the one I knew from back home, the one that until yesterday, I had forbade myself to grow any type of emotional attachment to, the one that I thought could never happen. The one that knew all my secrets, the one that I loved, the one that would plan my wedding.
I've already judged everyone within the first hour by what shoes they're wearing, the way they touch their eyebrows, what they're doing with the empty cups.
The girl next to me is folding a gum wrapper into halves until it becomes impossible.
And I'm thinking maybe I said more than I wanted to, more than I should've. I'm thinking the conversations will be repeated elsewhere. She'll make up the parts that she can't remember. Apologies for the disappointment, but you taught me all about that. Swears of secrecy are always a phony. They would agree with me--but sometimes it doesn't hit until after being sober from the rush. Cause for that small while, there's something flaming through our bloodstream, and our own conscience don't feel like ours. There's an untraceable hole somewhere in our already punctured hearts that's uncontrollably leaking insecurities and passwords. But these hearts were meant to pour, and these ears were meant to listen.
Alicia Keys is playing on the highest volume but no one will hear cause someone's left the earphones plugged in.
One of us is thinking about her most recently failed relationship. One of us is thinking about the relationships yet to come. One of us is thinking it's getting late. But all of us are thinking about home. One of us is thinking about her ex. One of us is thinking about the other friend that should've been there. One of us is hungry. One of us is angry. One of us is in love.
A fine frenzy.
Desperately and honestly trying to regain the trust-- regain. Over-analyzing, over-exaggerating, contradicting, arguing, overdosed on that evanescent variable unknown that deceived all of us to be eternally everlasting.
So twisted and so absurd. So much time already wasted.
Epilogue:
And they'll never know how paranoid they made us, how fucked up we got because of them, how much they messed with us, how difficult it is without the romances of living. It annoys me to give them even that much credit. We vow never to make the same mistakes that they did. We conclude that they aren't larger than life, not anymore. We praise God and part.
A solemn inside joke.
And I'm thinking maybe I said more than I wanted to, more than I should've. I'm thinking the conversations will be repeated elsewhere. She'll make up the parts that she can't remember. Apologies for the disappointment, but you taught me all about that. Swears of secrecy are always a phony. They would agree with me--but sometimes it doesn't hit until after being sober from the rush. Cause for that small while, there's something flaming through our bloodstream, and our own conscience don't feel like ours. There's an untraceable hole somewhere in our already punctured hearts that's uncontrollably leaking insecurities and passwords. But these hearts were meant to pour, and these ears were meant to listen.
Alicia Keys is playing on the highest volume but no one will hear cause someone's left the earphones plugged in.
One of us is thinking about her most recently failed relationship. One of us is thinking about the relationships yet to come. One of us is thinking it's getting late. But all of us are thinking about home. One of us is thinking about her ex. One of us is thinking about the other friend that should've been there. One of us is hungry. One of us is angry. One of us is in love.
A fine frenzy.
Desperately and honestly trying to regain the trust-- regain. Over-analyzing, over-exaggerating, contradicting, arguing, overdosed on that evanescent variable unknown that deceived all of us to be eternally everlasting.
So twisted and so absurd. So much time already wasted.
Epilogue:
And they'll never know how paranoid they made us, how fucked up we got because of them, how much they messed with us, how difficult it is without the romances of living. It annoys me to give them even that much credit. We vow never to make the same mistakes that they did. We conclude that they aren't larger than life, not anymore. We praise God and part.
A solemn inside joke.
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