delicatepoetry

I am the type of girl, who screws up everything she touches. I cannot go a whole day without one negative thought, but I can find the beauty in everything, except for myself. I have one too many books on my shelf, instead of one too many pairs of shoes. My scars are the biggest insecurity I have, yet I have to wear them like bracelets down my wrists. I talk in a small voice, but when I laugh, it’s loud and obnoxious. I am afraid of death, but most the time I wish I was dead. I remember the bad memories more than the good, and I don’t just let anyone through the door to my heart.

He is the type of boy, who fixes every crack he touches. He paints his world in a positive light, finding his own beauty in things that are not looked at as beautiful, like me. He has too many albums stacked on his shelf, next to the pile of his favorite films. When he talks it’s in the sweetest, most calming voice you’ll ever hear, I mean, it sounds like an angel. He is afraid of life, but still wants to keep living. He picks out the best moments of his past and replays it in the back of his mind like his favorite television show. He doesn’t just let anyone through the door to his heart.

When we met, I didn’t believe he could fall for a girl like me. I was clumsy in our conversation, without even having to trip, because I fell. I fell for him. I fell for the way he viewed the world, I fell for the way he carried secrets in his mouth, and I just craved to kiss them open. I don’t know how he fell for me, I don’t know if it was because I called him lovely instead of hot, or told him I couldn’t make love to just anyone. I don’t know if it was the way my hair always looked messy in pictures, or how I wore red lipstick too much. I just know that he fell for me, the real me.

i.c. // “The Story of Us” (via delicatepoetry)