—IF ONLY I’D THOUGHT OF THE RIGHT WORDS

  

 

THE GIFT OF EVERYTHING    /    Lang Leav

 

 

I don’t know if what we had was love, but if it wasn’t, I hope never to fall in love.

 

You think falling in love is holding on, but it isn’t. It is hands gripping the edge of the world and letting go, one finger at a time.

 

Nothing felt like mine anymore, not after you. All those little things that defined me; small sentimental trinkets, car keys, pin codes, and passwords.  

 

I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of you, only to look again and realize it wasn’t you after all.

 

Look at you. You’ve stitched your life so perfectly together.

So why do you keep looking back at the one thing that can undo it all?

 

Tomorrow you’re going to fall in love, and it would be pretty.

 

One day, you’ll meet me here, and I will tell you this: I will tell you that we made it.

 

Love looks pretty on you.

 

Love is the only thing that time can’t touch.

 

Isn’t it strange how much of our lives are interchangeable, how little is truly ours? Someone else’s ringtone, someone else’s song, someone else’s words, someone else’s broken heart. These are the things we inherit by choice or by chance. And it wasn’t my choice to love you.

 

Who you love and who loves you back determines so much in your life.

 

When I was down to one, I couldn’t choose between a knife and a picture of you.

 

If I could tell my younger self one thing, it would be this: There are many things in life you can postpone, but love isn’t one of them. 

 

Sometimes I wonder if my inability to function in the real world is really such a bad thing. I wonder if that’s why I’ve spent so much time sheltered in my imagination.

 

Sweetheart, let this be your one glorious mess because in the end the only person you should answer to is yourself.

 

The day you become a woman, they hand you a grenade. And you must choose between hurling or holding. Between want and expectation.

 

Excise your desire while you are still hungry.

 

But first of all, you need to matter to yourself.

 

I wish I could put a pen in your hand and gently remind you how the world has given you poetry and now you must give it back.

 

And aren’t you always saying how glad you are to have met me?

 

I’m not asking for promises or tenure—I just want a hand to reach for a breaking point.

 

What I will tell you is this: it’s okay to be hurting as much as you are.

 

No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to pick myself up off the floor.

 

Everything I write is observational—even when it is my own self I am watching.

 

I have learned to stop saying yes when I don’t mean it.

 

Everything feels sentimental these days.

 

There it is, that one thing in your past you wish you could undo. If only you could get to it.

 

Nothing hurts like hope.

 

It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to me—said all at once.

 

 

Into a well 

a girl threw a penny 

 

What do you wish for 

asked the well 

 

I wish for a penny

said the girl

 

 

Please don’t send me shooting stars when my mind is a loaded pistol.

 

In the wrong hands, your past is a weapon.

 

I am somebody else’s story.