You walk to the ticket stall, hoping this evening doesn’t end in a Melanie Martinez song. You buy two one-way tickets to Neverland -one for Em & one for yourself- knowing very little of how nights end here (or if they end at all).
You think you’ve finally caught up on love.
You’re not a horse on a carousel, going fucking round and round.
You get on all the rides with Em, mistaking the rush of adrenaline in your bloodstream for love.
I wouldn’t blame you. It’s hard, almost inconceivable, to not fall in love with Em. You cannot help but intoxicate yourself in her melancholy. We are but drawn to chaos. It wouldn’t be right to say that seeing you with her didn’t prick at all. Em is the kind of person I can write ballads about- the perfect muse.
far too bohemian for our homesickness,
buying art off her neverlandish youth
You’ve reached the top of the ferris wheel. Listen to me, and don’t hold her hand. Don’t forge your fingers into the spaces between hers. Don’t forge your dreams on her fazed canvas. You’re too fucking far from the ground to gamble with reality. Have you not the simplest idea she will push your hand away and in this way, reap your heart out and fucking butcher it on the cold floor of Merryland. That’s precisely how nights end here. You wished you were an undiscovered stowaway to Em’s sanctuary, didn’t you, Tee? You thought this was a joyride that only went up. And God, how you shattered when it fell.
P.S. This post is about a friend of mine (the person in the picture) who used to be (or possibly still is) hopelessly in love with someone.