Lob me the ball, “bruh,”

I want to smash it out of the park.  I’m tired of hiding the battleships tattooed across my chest.  Call me Popeye.  Those symmetrical 16 inch / 50-caliber Mark 7 barrels’ recoil alone knock me from my feet, I swear.

Pardon any tardiness!  I am coming as fast as I can!



Spoon-feed me more malleable clues. Navigating this corn maze of he saids and she saids is exhausting. I swear, my heart’s already yours! Make connecting the dots and communicating easier on me, please. It’s wet outside, I have therapy at noon and there’s nothing I would not do to just see your hand reaching for mine.

The God’s honest truth is I still delete and hide the texts I send you as soon as they read sent to calm my anxiety! I’d say things scare me still but that would be dwelling, right?

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