I can’t sing.
I don’t know what I’m doing standing here next to you, biting my lip, hoping you’ll hold my hand. I sure as hell don’t know why I keep thinking of random things about myself I want you to know.
I think Hemmingway’s writing sucks.
I don’t want to tell you these things while we’re at dinner, or- even worse- blurt them out while we stand outside, waiting for a table. I just want you to know them, eventually.
I hate pickles.
I can’t help but stare awkwardly at my feet as you light up a cigarette, not purposefully ignoring me. I think.
I wish on broken shoelaces and spilled shots.
I put my hands behind my back, having realized you won’t hold them. “So…” I try to begin, try to formulate a thought… But I can’t.
I used to think onion rings were calimari.
Why can’t you just look at me? Please?
I love listening to death metal.
The buzzer goes off in your hand and you stand up. I want to scream.
I want you to know these things, because I want you to know me, Dad.
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Acquaintances
Posted 28 days ago
Acquaintances
Posted 28 days ago
Acquaintances
Posted 28 days ago
Acquaintances
Posted 28 days ago
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