I like boys. And by like, I mean love. And maybe it's because I often get lonely solo shopping at Bed, Bath and Beyond, or that I get tired of being the only one to laugh at my jokes, but I am constantly searching for something new. Like looking through dusty shelves in my room, trying to relax, and searching through racks of clothes at Target. And maybe I have great persistence in checking out price tags, but nice is always nice enough. And maybe I know that hand washing clothing is too much work and looking further into buying something expensive that will last a life time won't be worth it. I'm gonna out grow it anyways right? And maybe my mind was set on this idea the first time I fell in love. When I jumped too high and too fast that I hit the ground, and now the sound of eggs splattering into frying pans makes a chill run down my back. Because after three months of sexy sins and loving lips, you threw me in the laundry. Sent off to China Town, as my skin got mixed in with your other girl's underwear. And I still feel like dirty socks because one part of me is missing, and I bet when your mom asks about me, you'll probably say I got lost in the wash. Throwing half of me into a bag filled with other missing pairs of socks. And maybe that's why I'm the only person in this world that hates the feeling of newly, dried jeans because it reminds when you threw me away. I notice it's color, not as vibrant, fading. And I notice the fabric starting to rip at the seams. But though it seems as though there is no means to my being, I promise you I will warm those that don't like the feeling of cold, wooden floors. I promise you I will find someone that doesn't mind wearing mismatched pairs of socks. And when you finally find part of me lying underneath your mattress, I promise, you will struggle trying to understand your sadness