All of it.
I can't shut up about it even though I think I should hold it close, keep it to myself, not shout it from the rooftops. It's more precious if it's close to me. If I don't tell anyone. If I leave out the part where all of my feelings suddenly feel trite and cliched and done before. If suddenly my life, my writing, sounds straight out of "Love, Actually." If my bitterness has ebbed. If I'm smiling like a fool. If I'm sleep deprived and my lips feel swollen and tender because of the kissingkissingkissing. (You know that feeling? That look you get? Your lips are red and puffy and you wander around replaying the cause. You wander around in a bit of a daze, daydreaming about all that kissing, all that newnessclosenesstouchingslowfast can'tgetenoughravenousmagic. You know.)
I can't seem to contain myself and want, no, need to describe the magnitude. Need to use trite phrases and be forgiven, be cut some slack, because that kiss? That first kiss with him? I didn't know it could be like that. I didn't know it could feel that way.
Me. The heartless, sarcastic girl who can't shut up, can't stop ranting about the injustices in the world (read: how much I hate/can't trust/have issues with men)- I couldn't talk. The kiss. And then: nothing. I couldn't come back with a sarcastic comment. Couldn't let my feelings show. Couldn't speak. Couldn't speak.
There was something there.
And today, his name is on my lips. On my tender, red lips. I'm gushing. I'm gushing. I can't keep it to myself. I can't stop it. I can't let it go. I can't stop the thoughts. The thoughts of him. Of how perhaps he's just my type. That mental checklist I have? That one where I can see a man and know if it's even worth it, because that checklist is specific. And this boy, this boy, I'm checking boxes. It's looking good. I'm being trite and checking boxes and wanting thinking talking. He is on my lips. He is in my head.
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