Never fall in love with a writer because their love comes with a messy disclaimer, their love is only theirs, never yours, (even after you’ve left them) that way you can never escape the repercussions of your affection, or the lack thereof one day they’re too stubborn to admit they love you, while on another day they’ve written a poem about your hazel eyes and freckles on the back of your hands like molten caramel and chocolate chips
when you fall for a writer they will immortalize your Barcelona jersey and faded jeans in similes, your childhood memories will become their business, they will write about your PTSD, in excruciating details as if they felt your pain more than you did pity, you can’t figure out if that makes you angry or sad
every fight or drunk text, will find it’s way into their stories in ways you can’t undo, they will serenade bastard children of your infidelity and their insecurities into love poems, you can’t help but like, and when you let them go, the poems turn from petrichor to choking fire
she will write about you like you’re the sun, moon and all the stars above, her words make your love story a Shakespearean drama and you think you’ve found Juliet. but her words are her Romeo, she is drunk on Charles Bukowski and while you’re falling for her she’s looking for poetry in your ocean eyed gaze and metaphors in your heartbreak never fall in love with a writer because the day you leave, you will push pain into their veins while they draw ink from it and push syllables on paper because even before they say hello they have thought of you as another goodbye.