floppypal:

type 

1.       ambiguous

You never know what to say to him and when you do, it’s somehow always wrong. Whatever you think was a good idea tumbles forth from your mouth, the syllables and sounds clunking against each other, falling to the floor in heaps of awkward chuckles and ringlets of hair twirled around your fingers – and yet Jimin laughs anyway but whether it’s a genuine, flex-of-the-stomach laugh or stiff, diffuse-the-tension puff of air, you can never tell.

It makes you anxious – Jimin makes you anxious and what comes out of your mouth is not what was brewing in your head, far from it but the path from the sparking neurons of your brain to the dribbling babble of your lips seems to be twisted and still infinitely turning and thus the right words lose their way. You always find yourself saying the wrong thing – and yet Jimin laughs anyway.

2.       thunder

Your words follow you home, pound at your door when you’d rather just forget you ever said them. You slap yourself onto your bed, breathing in the fabric softener in long, tired draws while you mash your face into the sheets – oh how you wish you were articulate. Charming, pleasant, polite – anything that isn’t what you are now which you’re not sure there’s even words for – even if there were you doubt you’d say them right in the first place.

Your words slam against your walls, your mistakes thunder against your skull, thrashing and shattering until you think your brain will leak through your ears. You wish you knew the words – or maybe you do, you just can’t speak them lest they crumble at your lips which is why you dig through your desk, rummaging for ink and paper in the hopes that maybe he can read what you can’t figure out how to say.

3.       bullets

Facial expressions are null as his eyes flit down the list, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed – the edges of the page are crinkling under his palms, the ink seeping into his skin; what he expected when you handed him a folded note sealed with wax is not what is he seeing. What he sees is not a frilly confession of love written in spiraling letters with curling tails framed with little red hearts but a bulleted list – lines and lines and lines – of reasons. One after another after another of why you can’t be together – awkward, rude, silent. You wring the sleeves of your sweater into knots.

“I don’t understand,” he mumbles, the usual smile curling on his lips but now it’s confused, shocked, hurt. His lips worm into a grimace as he skims to the last point, I am not your type.

You shrug, body twisting to scurry back to your home when he catches your wrist in his hand, warm and soft and everything you’re not.

“Then what type are you?”