It's been like a permanent December

It's been like a permanent December

I have been writing unsigned love letters, long soliloquies of the way I wish things were, for years, filling notebooks and word docs and the occasional margin of my math notes, but what it all comes down to is that everything is unsigned, I'm always unsigned, and I disguise myself and my letters and I assume new identity after new identity, but in the end the commonality is that I am not the kind of person whom things happen for naturally, and I am not the kind of person who is tenacious enough to go after what she wants.

So I've been writing this letter to you in my head for a few days, and basically, I like you, there we have it, but you can't ever know, because of who you are and who I wish I wasn't and because of how I knew your name even before I saw your face. I think you're cute and I like your smile, and meanwhile I write blog posts and add another hundred words to my "novel" that I'll never let anyone read again. You barely even know I exist, and that sounds cliche because it is cliche, because I'm a cliched teenage girl with a crush on a boy in a cliche high school, and as much as I can't wait to escape and build a new world for myself next year, I don't have any hopes that things will change for me now, because in the end I'm still me and you're still you, and things are just the way that things are.

Now it's getting late and I'm so damn cold, and I can't help but know that in the end this will fade like most things do, and I will graduate from high school and look around me at these people that I've spent the last four years with, and I'll pray that they've had a better last four years than I have but that I'll have a better future.