I’m sure you think I’m an enigma, a deceptive mystery in your world of over-confident, presumptuous, carefree girls.
With your questions about the tint on my car, my friends, my smoking habits.
You with your parties; and wechat; and cruising; and phone calls, bickering with an ex about how drunk she was and how many boyfriends she’s had.
I am outside that world, barely tweeting at the edge, what little excitement I savored, is overshadowed by one colossal heartbreak. Even so, I don’t care if you lived differently, I don’t care if you had much or didn’t. I care how you express things, I care about vulnerability. I look to see if you can be soft in the same moment that you are angry at me. I look for humility in the most arrogant situations.
So it’s your turn to tell me, have you mistreated a girl- Did exactly what boys did to your sister. Are you still in love with someone- Angry that they can live past the bedroom with drawn curtains.
Can you show me things that I wouldn’t be able to show you?