quite sick

you're not the only one that can put flowers in your hair and glitter on your eyes. they're a dime a dozen at coachella, toes buried deep in music-soaked mud and all having the same kind of manufactured whimsy and copy-paste wanderlust hours of tumblr-ing taught them. you're not the only one who has a offbeat, film-grained profile photo you had to take on self-timer cause there was no way you could contort yourself in that position in front of anyone. maybe your lover; the boy you watched 500 days of summer with (ugh), the boy you so carefully handpicked because his hair fell in a perfect curl over his eyes and he blew out cigarette smoke the way they did in godard films and...that's it. that's all you need to make him out to be this beautiful, profound mess that you would take under your wing and fix. you're not the only one who can feel infinite driving through a tunnel in the middle of the night (ENOUGH). you're not the only one whose tresses dance in the wind, running around tall fields in your white cotton dress you naively thought was going to remain unstained. you're not the only one with