ramblings from a girl who doesn't know how to love

Dearest,

this is the second letter I've written to you. The first is stapled in my diary. I wouldn't want it to fly anywhere.

I'm here to confess (my sins):

- I tried manifesting for you to talk to me and not hate me. Kissed the paper and put it in a bag of crystals.

- (I really do think there's something wrong with me.) I listened to subliminals, as embarrassing as it seems. I fear this was what started everything I ruined. Please don't hate me. I hope you don't.

- I kiss my pillow every night, pretending it was you. I never felt the warmth of romantic embraces but my pillow is probably the closest I've ever gotten for the past fifteen-going-sixteen years of my life.

- I wonder if it is possible to fly to New Jersey when I turn eighteen. Chances are, I would've made you a memory to reminisce over by then.

- I'm writing love letters with the intention of smearing lipstick kisses all over.

- I want your face (that I've never seen) on my neck and your hands (that I got a glimpse of) on my waist.

- (I'm a deranged, horny teenage girl and I wonder if I'm too much for you.)

- I know absolutely nothing about you yet I crave to open you up like a book & prod my dainty, horny fingers at your words and receive definitions from your tongue.

- There is something undeniably wrong with me, my love.

- I don't even love you that much but I want to.

- I want you.

- I want you. 

- I want you, I want you, I want you.

- I need your help. Or maybe I don't.

- I want you to lay your vulnerabilities in my hands.

- I'll trade them for mine.

I'm sorry, Dearest.

With love,

Dakota.