I’ve got a bad habit of falling in love with art I can’t afford. Of playing the same song a thousand times. Of rewinding to the same parts over and over.
I’ve got a bad habit of sticking my heels into the ground until they’re planted like hundred-year-old oak trees. Of getting an idea in my head and immediately cashing it in. Of becoming consumed with loveliness, my own and not my own.
I’ve got a bad habit of spilling my guts out at the feet of others. Of feelings so intense they can’t be bottled or boiled. Of hoping for the ocean in a drop.
I’ve got a bad habit of knowing exactly what to do and pretending I don’t. Of waiting until the absolute last moment to jump before I fall. Of reinventing myself at the most inconvenient of moments.
I’ve got a bad habit of leaving my heart pinned to my cuff. Of refusing to sharpen against the grating of the world. Of being exactly what am I, even when ill-advised.