I reject you and you and you and you and you and all of you. I might think I want you, but I don't. I don't want a love. I don't need one. I need myself. Shoot me down, come on. You thought I was all big talk? I bite, too. I survive, and I'm still here. Feel however you want, do whatever you want, be whoever you want, cry however much you want to. It's okay. Just survive. Get through it. Breathe. And repeat: he is not the Sun. You are not his; you are your own. You own your own heart, and may it beat with the strength and pride of a lion's roar and the beauty of a hummingbird's wings. You are a queen, and may you be treated like nothing less than just that.
YOU ARE READING
The Scrambled Philosophies That I Call Thoughts
PoetryThe scattered musings about love and life by a(n) (a)musing girl who knows little of either.
