From my diary, the old fashioned kind with paper and ink and a crap lock that your mother could jimmy open with a bobby pin.
March 26, 1998 [forgive the 23-year-old me for my clichéd early attempts at prose]
I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop.
You've somehow woven your way into my vascular system. I feel you flowing through my veins. Every beat of the heart pushes you away in order to bring you back inside. Except this time you're dispersed, spreading deeper within me, taking over more territory. My hand didn't love you last week, but Monday my pinky fell and today my arm raised a white flag. I wake up with a sanguine taste in my mouth and it's not gingivitis.
You are so different from my historical figures. Not just appearance-wise, but inside. You are that horrible word which makes young girls cower with fear and causes grown women's ears to bleed. "Nice." And I'm so incredibly turned on by that word. But then again, I'm not like other girls. The thought of you being "nice" to me makes my heart race. The thought of your big "nice" shoulders protecting me, holding me, makes me feel like the woman I've been burying in sarcasm for years.
It's so sudden. I was not prepared. I was blindsided. You who made me laugh. You who barely spoke. You. You.
Now it's too late, because I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop.