we.

they gave me a scholarship

but not because I count my kisses in order.
i got a perfect score on my english ACT but that stopped mattering

and my favorite number isn't 12 because he wore that on his jersey.

my birthday is 12/12

and that's how many kisses I compiled,

and baseball players I left on my doorstep.

I do count my car crashes, however, and that number swells

especially when the rain picks up

and nobody gets excited at the symphony

but I do.

I paint to set my scenery straight.

I draw to fill in the spaces on my paper.

I cry to roll the feelings around in my hands, because it feels good

and you're lying if you don't think it's easier to submit to your demons.

I tell a boy I love him everyday

multiple times

and maybe I deserve a dose of karma for swooping in on him too soon

but every uneasy step has only sucked us inwards.

we don't have many places to go but up.

I kiss my baby sister and she tries to wipe it off

until I declared that it takes 5 seconds to be stuck there forever

and now she's stuck with every kiss she's gotten,

but I can't say the same about me.

"what movie do you want to watch" is usually followed by laughter

because that's just a good excuse to listen to someone breathe.

I don't like las vegas.

the smell of smoke reminds me of the times I slept in paris with the windows open

and the house in normandy reminds me of rain

and rain reminds me of my family's house in amsterdam.

it always felt better across the sea.

him & I have almost run out of secrets

and he doesn't understand my Vampire Diaries references

but he likes me better in his clothes.

and I don't know anything about sex 

except that it makes people less young,

and baby daddies hold onto cigarettes to catch a reckless breath.

this isn't about me anymore.

it never was.

it's about sweatshirts I kept from rejected kisses.

it's about the back of everyone's pickup trucks that stole a piece of my mind.

it's about the hours I gave to people's basements

and the root beer floats left anonymously in my fridge.

it's about the hair color that grandma calls "spun gold"

and how many 'I love you's' withstood the sarcasm.

it's about the jokes that crossed the line

and the number of years we stole from each other.

it's about the fact that I was always barefoot

and summer didn't need kisses to have its own flavor.

it's about you in your green jacket.

you in your red jacket.

you in your car.

and it's about me in france.

me in my hoodie.

me in your hoodie.

it's about me and you
and us.