Was I your practice test
Preparing you to love her
In ways you never loved me
Was I your pen
My blood as ink
Writing love letters addressed to her
Was I your safe place
My rib cage cracked open
To shelter and care for you
When no one else would
Or was I just a mere tool
Helping you grow roses
In your garden
Designed for her
Three years later, a new girl sits cross-legged on your bed.
She tastes like a different flavor of bubblegum than you are used to.
She opens up a book that you had to read in high school, and a folded picture of us falls out of chapter three.
Now there are two unfinished stories resting in her lap.
Inevitably, she asks, and you tell her.
You say: I dated her a while back.
You don’t say: Sometimes, when I’m holding you, I imagine the smell of her vanilla perfume.
You say: She was younger than me.
You don’t say: The sixteen summers in her bones warmed the eighteen winters my skin had weathered.
You say: It’s nothing now.
You don’t say: But it was everything then.
Every single person who reblogs this will get the name of the Magcon boy (present or past) whom I ship them with, a brief oneshot about them and their boy, and a preference of something about him (what he calls you, how he kisses you, etc.) in their inbox.
I’m dead serious. EVERY. SINGLE. PERSON.