Thursday, November 6, 2014

It's not my box.

-Nighttime, in Jamaica-

He takes a sip of rum as the hot breeze dries my salty wet hair.
I play with the sand between my toes wiggling them back and forth.

Him: Can I tell you something?
Me: What's up?
-he looks at me-
Him: Your sister told me about your breakup. Sounded really bad. 
-I look down at my French manicure-
Him: You keep trying to fit into this box.... dating these guys.... Forget about what people think! You are a free spirit and an artist. Live the life you want to live! Do it your way.

So, I did. 

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