Once, during the summer of our confusion, you told me that you loved me because I wasn’t like other girls. I found that phrase to be repulsively hackneyed then, and still think it’s insultingly trite when men say it now, but because it was you I let you say so. I would’ve let you say anything.
I did ask you what made me different, though. And I remember you said, “You’re the kind of girl that would return to the scene of the crime.” I didn’t say anything else because I didn’t want you to know what kind of girl I actually was. Then you said in a cloud of smoke, “Through brazen curiosity, though, not stupidity,” and I still didn’t say anything and you didn’t expand on your thought any more, even though now I wish more than anything that you had, that you’d told me who I was, that you’d explained me to me.
That one thought that you almost certainly don’t remember now could have defined me. Perhaps it did, because here I am, standing at the scene of the crime and thinking about your thought while you don’t think of me at all anymore.
Originally published on Hijacked Amygdala here.
Treacle Heart 
OHMYGOD
Glad I decided to check out your blog after seeing your comment on ‘Flash-365’. Your writing is awesome.
Aw thank you, your visit is much appreciated :) x
Not everyone understands that a choice phrase or word here or there could shape your whole self; that some of us are malleable souls. You captured this beautifully (if that was the aim!)
Well put, especially at a time when we were lost little teenagers trying to work ourselves out. Thank you for reading xx