my days with you

by kathrianna

Her past and present had collided once again. She looks at him and she sees her future.

3. Chapter 3

On the Eight Day

Recovery

I think there are pieces of me still glued to you; so stubbornly stuck to your skin. My widening eyes, the color of my lips, my keen memory and my perception.

But she's been waiting for you at home, massaging away the tension in your back as the remainder of me is loosened by the lavender scented oil I once bought you for Christmas. And with each night, with each massage, you shed me like dead skin and she sweeps your memories of us underneath the rug.

Flame and Ashes

You and I were a flame once. And now, we are nothing but ashes of second-hand cigarettes waiting to be taken away by wind.

Maybe

In another lifetime maybe we meet in a coffee shop, at a play, maybe in a bar. In another life you have better intentions or I could ask for more. In another lifetime I would ask you to stay or you would have never left.

Cathartic Crowns

Every person you are in love with, are immortalized in your writing, and it is a quaint thing. Telling the world how much you have your pieces taken from you. The way you loved them was consuming, and then tell me why they loved you; because of your face, your smile and your laugh.

You have told me the nights, you almost bleed your wrists to death and I can't afford to tell you the nights I tried to stab myself.

I can see in the way your fingers tremble; the first time you felt the weight of hate, have the bones of your legs ever cracked because of the pressure? Because the smooth skin of your palms has been hardening.

You are a child that loves the rain because in the early mornings you put your hand out to the drops of the sky, but you are also a child that loves the sun, because in the early mornings, your hair is lighter and your smile is brighter.

Anger is the way my father left. Hate is the way my mother never talked to us after.

Your first name is derived from history, and it shows, your keen memory, your perceptive reasoning. I notice that when people first meet you, they bow unknowingly.

You are an open book, and I have read most of the chapters in it. The uncertainty in your voice when we are together, the milk box every morning, a cat snuggling into your knee in the garden, and sneaking in an ice cream stick during lectures.

You believe that love is not a finite source.

You believe we don't really have one true love, and we just don't have enough time to find the others.

There are some things you do not believe in though, —

You do not believe you would have lived through the age of ten

You do not believe that you are a forgiving person.

You do not think that people will remember the color of your eyes.

Remember how I told you the most dangerous thing a person can do is to forget?

I admit, I may forget if they were black, or if they were brown, but I know the world is in them.

You told me that if you ever got a chance to choose your own parents, you would never choose them again, and you never did look at me at that time.

You told me that summer nights in España, is a place where you finally belong to someone and someone belongs to you. That the boy you loved and knew all the parts of you is the color of gold.

I do wonder and I do want to ask at times…what is my color, your favorite subject, do I teach well?

What have you written up until now?

At times I want to say what really happened between my mother and my father, at times I want to talk about how it was hard to pick up my life and start over again, how a life in education has made me miss a lot of opportunities in my own, but I wanted to have Wednesdays with your smile instead.

Because your young face was comforting, you approach everything with a smile, you hand letter when you are bored or I see you walking alone from the clinic and as much as you are a storyteller, you are a listener.

I want to tell you that yes I have bled from other people's wounds, and I bled from yours the most.

And lastly, let me tell you this to answer all your questions.

Your keys were never just duplicates, I just needed to replace the lock, because there is more than the world than a jaded professor that fakes his smiles, that hides everything with a laugh. There is more to write than the sun in my eyes, my warm hands, or my reverent voice -

That's telling you too much —

after all,

that was only the second floor of the building

after all,

that was our last time talking.

.

Day

Loving you was like watching the sunset. At the moment, it was beautiful, and warm, and felt like coming home; but when it was over; I can only feel the darkness, and the emptiness and the coldness.

Remember

I remember the day I realized I lost you; I remember waking up, hopeful, happy, expecting the euphoria to come, and being hit by the stark realization that we haven't spoken in two months,

I haven't seen you in two months, I've spent every day since pretending I'm not plagued by your memory, of what could have been; pretending that every poem I write isn't for you. I haven't seen you in two months and I'm going to pretend I didn't get the news of not seeing you in forever

Silly Girl

I don't know what I was expecting. How could you, with your sunshine smile, kind eyes, and quiet laughter; you, who is deeply in love with her, ready for forever, ever want someone like me? Me, who is not beautiful, delicate, or desirable; me, mouth full of knives, shaking and numbing fingers, and ripped thighs; who has nothing left to offer but sadness. Of course, you would never love someone like me because there's nothing to love.

Start a Conversation

I want to sit with you here and tell you I am doing better. Tell you that I now go home with a friend by my side or that I do not eat alone anymore, that I do not struggle to get out of bed. Tell you that because I do not talk about my sadness, it means there is nothing left to talk about.

I want to tell you so badly that I am better. But that would be lying, and the only thing I'm okay at is not lying. You see, I get out bed, only because the nightmares are too much to bear; I do not talk about my sadness, because there is no one left willing to listen anymore.

I have run out of metaphors to say: "the only reason I haven't killed myself, is because I am scared of failure." I have run out of pretty words to say: "I am not better."

Point of Interest

I'm scared that loving you was the most interesting thing about me.

Musings

Did you know that it is impossible?

To imagine a color that you've never seen before?

I wish I knew how to tell you that there are still days I do not know if I will make it to thirty. There are still days I crave to see what the inside of my arms looks like, and I go to sleep, hoping that tomorrow never comes.

I wish I knew how to tell you that, no, I'm not okay. I haven't been okay for a very long time. I don't think I've ever known how to be okay. I am uncomfortable in the thought of being okay, because what if this pain—these shaking hands, numbing mouth, bent over the school toilets—is the only noteworthy thing about me?

I am uncomfortable not knowing who I am without this constant hole in my chest; because, what if without the ache, I find that there is nothing else there? Nothing worth to write about, nothing worth to notice. What if this pain is who I am?

Did you know—it is impossible to imagine a color you've never seen before?

Begin Again

If I could start over, there would be no beginning. I would never introduce my tongue to your name; never let myself become a falling grace from your lips.

If I could start over, there would be no us; I wouldn't be something for you to grace yourself, and you wouldn't be something for me to immortalize with my words.

If I could start over, go back to day one, knowing everything I know now; like what it's like to be swallowed whole by an empty void, I wouldn't.

You see, there was a time when the concept of me did not exist without you; I was merely pieces of a whole, which couldn't exist without you to complete the picture.

I thought myself smaller; folded myself into corners, and hidden behind a pew, I thought myself gone for so long, hoping that, one day, there would be nothing left to think about.

I allowed myself to be destroyed by the hurricane that is you. Enchanted by your resolving thoughts, filled with promises of tomorrow, and recovery. I was blinded by your smile, never noticing your razor blade fingers until my skin was stained red.

Like all hurricanes, though, you left as quickly as you came. Your destruction paved its way through my world, not caring about what you left behind; leaving only me, swallowed by the debris of our love.

You may be the storm, but I have lightning in my fingertips, and everything I touch is always left a little more explosive. If it could start over, there would be no water to precipitate.

Think of the Future

Before you go, talk to me one last time, and promise me you'll never hurt another student as you've hurt me.

Finished

There was a time I thought you loved me. You wanted to know every dark thought in my brain; you wanted to see me at my lowest point. Truth is, though, it was not love. I was desperate for love, and you were desperate for a sense of purpose. However, you cannot kiss me well; you cannot love me and make me recovered. You are not the cast to my broken spirit. I am not the ice pack to your bruised ego. I am not here to make you feel useful.

To the person who may one day complete my constellation:

Please, do not compare me to a piece of art. Yes, the sentiment is nice and appreciated, but please refrain from doing so. You see, art is meant for great museums. Art is not meant to be touched, only admired from afar; art can only be viewed during work hours. Art spends every night alone.

If you must compare me to something, please consider comparing me to your favorite blanket. The one you've had all your life, tattered from love. The one that makes you feel safe and warm and like nothing can hurt you.

Compare me to your favorite movie. The one that you've watched more times than you can count; the one that you know all the lines to, but you will continue to watch it over, and over again because the characters feel like family, and watching it feels like coming home.

Compare me to your childhood teddy bear; the one you've slept with every night. The one that fights off the monsters. Compare me to something that you love, something you could never let go of.

If you let me, I will be all those things. I will make it my mission to keep you safe, and warm, and never let anything hurt you. To be your family, to be your home. To fight off all the monsters. Even the ones inside you.

Please, do not compare me to art. Art is beautiful and perfect, and I am neither of those things.

Baby Steps

He hurt me–a lot. But he also made me feel as though I was made of moonlight, and one of the most loved things in his life. On the bad days, I wrap myself in that familiar feeling of being loved by him–even if it was all a lie– he was just trying to teach my lungs how to breathe again. I'm still a work in progress. I hope that one day; I will be able to feel warm without his love; that I can make myself believe that I am made of moonlight.

Amnesia

I've forgotten the color of your eyes, but I still hear your voice in the middle of the day. I've forgotten the countless movies you have recommended to me, but I still feel the way your hands have soothed my back. I haven't heard from you in months, but I still wonder what you're doing. I wonder if you laugh the same, or smell the same. I wonder if you ever think about me; I wonder if you ever knew about the way I forgot how to breathe when I saw you walking towards me or the way that my body ached to touch you.

Little Boy and Little Girl

In an unimaginable plot twist, you're back in my life. Something I've dreamt about for the last eight years of my life. You're back, and guess what–nothing's different. I'm still sad, you're still distant, and the sky's still blue.

I spent seven years writing about this amazing reality in which you come back, and, magically, everything would be fixed. A reality where my lungs are no longer filled with water, I no longer want to unzip my veins, and I love waking up every morning. None of that really happened.

I want to believe it's because we're both different people now, we've changed, and we have grown up and it will take time to make everything feel like it used to. That we need to learn how to love each other again. Maybe that's why I have a talent in world-building, because I can make even the most impossible scenarios believable, that even I start to believe it.

I know that we're not kids anymore, you don't need me, and, in reality, I don't need you either. I didn't need you to survive, because I did it all on my own for eight years. It was me who kept me going; it was me who got me up every single day, and did what I had to do. It was me–it's always been me.

You were never my hero. It's always been me.

Never

He could never love someone like me. He is lean limbs that tower over those who are not worthy of his light; I am ribs hidden beneath layers of regret. He is made of porcelain, strong, collected; I am nothing but shards glass, held up by strung up silver, buckling under the weight of my mistakes. He, the epitome of light and beauty, could never love someone like me.

Metaphor

Your name sounds like a prayer, and your laugh sounds like hope. When I look into your eyes, I forget what the loneliness feels like. When you hug me, I feel as though nothing can hurt me. I like the way my name sounds falling from your lips, and I love your laugh just a little bit more than usual when I'm the cause of it. I could spend hours listening about all the thoughts that swirl in your mind; I want to know everything you have to say. When I am with you, the sun shines a little brighter, my chest feels lighter, and I can finally breathe easy. This was how I learn to start loving you.

Maybe if I compared you to vodka, I'd finally regret your name coming in contact with my tongue. If I compared you to fire, I'd finally stopped reaching for you in the middle of the night. If I compared you to weeds, I'd finally pluck you out of my life. If I stopped comparing you to everything beautiful in the world, I would finally stop romanticizing you, and all the pain you've ever caused me. Maybe, just maybe, I would finally learn how to stop loving you.

Alternate Universes

I want to live in a reality where I haven't turned the men who broke me into my greatest masterpieces.

Happy Wishes

I hope she makes you happy. I hope she makes all of your bad thoughts go away, and only bring you peace. I hope when you look into her eyes, you see yourself sixty years in the future–happy and in love. I hope that when she touches you, it only makes you feel safe and at home–like a childhood blanket. When you kiss her, I hope you taste her laughter. When she holds your hand, I hope she only guides you home, to your happily ever after.

Better

If I was a better writer, I'd write about how I used your smile to sew my veins together; I'd write about how I tattooed your name on my ribs, so I could always be surrounded by you. If I was a better writer, I'd write about how every word sounds like your name, and how I've spent the last four years training my ears to stop listening. If I was a better writer, I would write about how I walked away from you; how I left every part of me touched by you on the corner of the street. But I am not a very good writer; my wrists are still bleeding, the street corner is empty, and I still go running every time you call my name.

Void

I no longer feel the sunshine on my skin, only the jagged edges of the void you left in my chest.

Who Am I?

I'm 17 years old,
right handed,
and I get really excited
about taking classes with history in them.

I was born in February
which I guess makes me a Pisces–
I like to think that I know what
that means, but, honestly,
I have no idea.

Happiness is a language
I'm still learning,
and I'm scared
I'll never be fluent;
scared that the words will
always get caught in my throat,
and I will be forced to stutter
my way through every sentence.

When people ask me why I write,
I tell them, "It's who I am," because
I am too scared to tell them that
I have forgotten who I was before it.

You see, when I speak, my words
fall clumsily from my lips,
and I swear I can see them
evaporate before my eyes.
I write because, if I didn't,
everything within me would
weigh down on my chest
until I couldn't breathe anymore.

Writing and breathing have become synonyms.

I'm running out of things to write.

Love Letter

I've written thousands of love letters to the sun. On some days, his rays have speckled so lovely in my eyes and it has not been so harsh to strain them –I like to think that's his way of writing back.

Beautiful

I became a writer because I thought, perhaps, I could rewrite my life in nonsensical and whimsical scenarios with my crush back in the fourth grade. If I were to take illustrious words, string them together, and wrap them in a nice and pretty bow, then maybe this burn in my chest would lessen. I thought if I were to create beautiful words, then I would, in turn, become beautiful.

It's been ten years. It has been so, so long. My chest still burns and my words are still more beautiful than I will ever be.

Grief

My grief will cut off all my veins and let them bleed.

My grief will burn my hair and it will never grow back.

My grief will give life to unending pain and suffering.

My grief will stop at nothing.

Accident

At times I feel like a human traffic accident and everyone is slowing down to see the wreckage.

I am a human traffic accident and the person who I thought will fix it, was the one who caused it.

First Time

People have always told me that my love for him was consuming, it took much of my time, my thoughts, my words, my breath, and even my heart. It made me, forget the moment. It made me, different. He made me do things I thought I would never do, he took parts of me, that I fear he still has even today.

People have always told me that my love for him was too loud. It clattered against the hallways, the white walls of the clinic, it vibrates through lockers and stairs, and it was hushed between passing lips and at times, disdainful stares. It was noisy, it was distracting.

People have always told me my love for him was wrong. As if our two lives were separated by a lifetime's worth. That his eyes are wiser, kinder, harsher, and mine were just brown. That it would be looked down upon, tattered clean to our achievements, ripped apart at the threads.

Someone told me, that my love for him; his name falls like a silken grace on my fingers, I saw parts of him, because he let me in. The feel of his stubble or the peaks of his graying hair. The way I utter a great thank you to the sun that has made a way for me to have met him.

It was the first time someone told me my love for him was genuine.

Passionate

If it's not passionate then I would not have it.

If it does not make me ache at night, frantically mumbling out songs in its wake, or if it does not make me memorize the slopes of its beauty, or make me recall even the tiniest granular detail then I would not have it.

If it does not make me try to walk to the end of the railways, if it does not make me try to break down every wall that I have put around myself, or if it does not make me try to be a kinder person, a happier person, then I would not have it.

If it is not you, then I would not have it.

Golden Calf

He is made of cigarette burns and a bit of gold; he is a Golden Calf not yet hardened, still dripping molten metal, still pliable.

Terms of Endearment

I called love "a little boy", who sang sweet songs softly in September. Love is funny, a bit feminine and fleeting; my voice still carries out his soundless songs.

I termed love as "my first", good morning messages that make my heart flutter, a pair of glasses that I still wear, the first time of a kiss, gently on a forehead. Love was waiting for my classes to end. The start of forever encapsulated by a boy who left texts bound to be lost to the world.

I dubbed love "a golden boy", and he shines so bright that my eyes have been trained only to see Love's light; my heart is the only one that can see the dirt and the ashes.

I tried appointing love as "tired". Love had the most exhausted eyes I have ever seen and the deepest of scars and unruly curls and a sculpted jaw. This Love was not love.

I then called love "a reverent man", fingers on top of a staircase and deep eyes that match with his faint wrinkles. I made a mistake of only hearing him, of only listening to him, of only feeling for him that I did not take to realize, I was not the only one Love was hearing, not the only one Love was listening, and most certainly, not the only one Love was feeling for.

After years and then some, I think Love just wants to be called by its real name. I think Love just wants to be called "You".

Singing a New Song

I used to sing songs to the afternoon sun in your eyes, making lyrics out of this love would be harsh and painful and yet I thought it would be worth it, making melodies magically appear from your mouth when I speak about more and more, laughter and laughter. I really believed we will be this great symphony that will be blasted throughout the halls or be whispered among people throughout these walls.

I have been aching to forget that old song, it took me so long; such a painstakingly disaster, when it was something only I can master. Days passed and I failed at singing that too. What came out of my lips, were just sobs that wreck my entire heart, screams that ripped the quiet afternoons when I thought finally, finally, I would have already been silent and resigned.

Something new has been entering my life; little steps on the floor and a little lilting of toes, a hearty laugh, fluffy hair and a lopsided grin. Cheesecakes and latte art. The way fingers sketch dragons and burning fires. The warmth of his arms and the scent of his downy clothes.

The lyrics out of his hands are soft and gentle, the melodies I am starting to make are lighter and they flow so easier. This symphony of the beginning he and I both have will start as a slow as a diminuendo, and I have hope that it will swell with such a great crescendo. I have been trying to sing a new song, it had taken so long, but finally, this is the place where I think, I feel like where I belong.

In a thousand lifetimes, I still do not deserve that boy, I look to think this life is our a thousand and one.

To my old song, thank you for the sun in your eyes, thank you for the laughter that we had shared, and thank you for all the times that we had. Now it's time for me to sing a new song.

Relapses

Anxiety takes a hold of my heart every single night and every single day
Because I have always grown up to worry about everything and anything
Cries have been all there ever is in my mouth and I fear it's all it will ever hold
Depression is a visitor that never really quite left and overworked its stay

Everyone has been telling me mixed signals and mixed words sometimes, my
Feelings are never quite heard as well as I hear theirs.
Great things are ahead of me, I know that, I know that.
Healing will come soon
I know that, I know that, It's
Just that I'm afraid at times, I feel like I'm holding a
Kite that is supposed to fly but all I ever do is just fix the strings.

Lost, at times I feel lost. At what to do and what to think
My heart tells me to rest
Nothing should ever break me
Oceans will part for me
Perfection is in my imperfections

Questions reside in my bones
Ripped skin
Scars still on my thighs
Tears down my face
Under the bed

Viewpoints are only temporary
When I look at the blue sky
X, is the way I should see all the wrong things and I should replace with good

Years later, when I am older, I will have the courage to smile prettily and
Zeal with come back, in waves across beaches.

Bourgeoisie Boy

Red looks great on you, the color of your lips, your favorite shirt, when you scream, and but not when it's on you because
Endeavors push you to fight, you see the haunted and emaciated children, the way they beg and steal and die, the smell of gunpowder and the
Vicious way you see how the people that sit on top turn blind eyes to the poor
On the way to the top of the barricades, your heart swells for freedom; yours and the people the system throw mud and bullets at.
Look down, look down. You scream that the president, his senators, young and old should look down,
Until blood, blood is on you, on my love, red, the color of your lips, your favorite shirt…
The sun will rise again because of you, because you have fought so long and hard, my love
I didn't have the chance to even tell you, despite every sacrifice you have done.
Old age would have looked well on you as well.
Now you are gone, and I will fight in your stead

Forget

I'm over you. But I can't get over the conversations at 4 p.m. while the world dripped away around us. I can't get over crying in your arms because you were the last person I had to hold on to. I can't get over the automatic twitch of my head hoping for a glance of your eyes. I can't get over Wednesdays. I can't get over the way you ripped through my facade of smiles and laughter and all was really buried beneath them, was just a scared little girl. I can't get over how you forgot me so quickly and so easily, and I wonder how many more students you'll forget before they decide to forget you first.

Scar

Those deep and wise eyes

You have forgotten his name

Letters scramble across your head

You couldn't piece a thing

Your mind –

It is full of troubling thoughts, right?

And your feelings

Sorrows, aches – they never faded

It still hurts you, doesn't it?

The scar on your heart, you can feel it

Like a sharp knife

Cutting through your skin

That part –

It wasn't so easy to forget

The pain –

It runs far, far deeper

You might try and ignore it

But it doesn't work that way

It is always pain – only pain

From him – it never got away

Never Enough

It's not enough to only see him in photos and videos. Not when I know what it feels like to have his strong arms around me. What his lips feel like on mine. What his fingers feel inside me. Not when I already know the weight of his hips on my hips. Nothing but him will ever be enough.

A Thousand and One

In a previous life, we kiss but the stars don't come down. In another, you plunge the world into floods for me but I drown in the process. Another and we're strangers on a busy street, brushing by close enough to send each other reeling off balance but not stopping. Somewhere there's a final space where your hand on my face is the punchy climax to an epic love story, where the way our mouths meet takes the breath right out of people's throats and then just like that, the breath of ours are gone as well. One universe has us right, of all the millions stacked on millions. I love to believe that finally, this is the right life. The world is full of wonders and a hundred years ago the moon was too much to dream of touching. Look how far we've come. Maybe in this lifetime, art and writing in coffee shops, are our little infinities.

Yes or Yes?

There are so many reasons to not kiss him:

1. I wasn't raised to love tender, I was raised to remain quiet and make the world my enemy.

2. When he's around all I do is tremble. When he's around me, I want to get on my knees. He has so much power over me; I make myself smaller to accommodate his stature.

3. He's too good at forgiving and I'm too good at making mistakes.

4. I know what they say about monsters. I know what happens to the boys who love them. Am I going to do that to him?

5. My hands don't know how to be gentle. I am a writer, I stitch and I wash and I cut. I think about the last beautiful thing that shattered in my palms. The fresh rose petals crumbling between my fingers like a bruise. I am a daughter of wolves, I wouldn't know how to hold magic and not destroy it.

6. If I hurt him it might hurt me.

7. If I kill him I might kill myself.

8. I am terrible at rehabilitation. This is one of the many addictions I'd fail to give up. He's going to destroy me and all other kisses and all the other boys and I'll spend the rest of my life trying to forget his name.

9. I'm still not sure if he isn't a dream.

10. If I kiss him, I might wake up and find myself alone again.

There are reasons to kiss him though:

1. Because he's beautiful.

2. Because he asked.

3. Because he said "Yes,"

Hubris

Falling in love with a god is not a death sentence. Falling in love with their strength, virtues, the places they had dared to call sacred. The animals to be sacrificed at their altars, or the symbols of their life. Falling in love with a lyre, an olive branch, sea foam, preludes to wine, silver-tipped arrows, a golden apple, is not a death sentence.

The story is only a tragedy if the god loves you back. If he sees the stories you write as the only testament to his faith, if she says the loveliest thing in the world is your smile, if they tell their most sacred people to give offerings in your name. If they tell their people that yes, you are not supposed to be scared that you are glorified by someone who is meant to be venerated themselves.

Gaps

"Your generation would probably 'live tweet' the end of the world," you say, and you laugh

You mean it as a joke, and I understand,

Or it is because you don't because the word lies awkwardly on your tongue, stumbles as it leaves your lips, air quotes visible, you lived through your years in solitude and paper, and although you try to keep up with the years, sometimes you still like clickbait.

You meant it as an insult, so you don't understand, when I look into your eyes and say "Yes"

Because we would.

It would be our work as the people on this Earth to photograph its end the best way we know, through the tweets, the Facebook lives, haphazardly taken pictures in name of aesthetic and if that means a second by second update of the world going up in flames, or down in rain, or crushed under the feet of invading monsters.

So be it.

It would mean a second by second update of

"I love you"

"I'm scared"

"Are you all right?"

"Stay close"

"Be brave"

It would mean a second by second update of humanity's connection with one another,

Proof of empathy, love, and friendship between people who may have never met in the flesh.

So don't throw the word 'Live tweet' at me like a dagger, meant to tear at my 'teenage superiority', that I have the naivety in my eyes that you have lost, remember our souls are one in the same,

Because if the citizens of Pompeii, the wretched soldiers of Troy, the people hiding in trenches, before they were consumed by fire, drafted to war, and lived to poverty had a chance to tell their friends and family throughout their life.

"I love you"

"I'm scared"

"Don't forget me"

You would agree that they would have taken the chance.

On The Eight Day

What if, in another universe, I do deserve you?

For instance:

In this universe, I am your student, but maybe in another, I am not and we meet, and we are the same age. Maybe there's a universe where you hold my hand and tell me you love me despite the stares, despite whatever people throw at us, a universe that this love that has stretched to the end of the earth, does not crash and just continues stretching further and farther.

Maybe there's a universe where I am allowed to take pictures of your smiling face, you take me out to café shops or we drive across towns and our playlist is the combination of me singings show tunes, letting down the window, belting out pop music and be so in character, and you would laugh, showing the crow's feet of your eyes, and you would gently sing worship songs and your voice like an angel of music. We would binge watch Tudors and point out all the historical inaccuracies.

Maybe there's a universe where that's not the life I want. Where I do not fall in love and we ride this year smoothly, no more, no less, no mixed signals. Just another normal year.

Maybe there's a universe where we are both happy. (or at least less sad). Where I adore every nice thing you did for me without starting to give it a lot of meaning. A universe where we actually end up with the things that make us happy. Pursuing music, pursuing writing, pursuing more than education. Where we explode at times instead of being dormant volcanoes. Where both of us can let down our baggage and curiosity and issues. A universe where we're happy — without wondering if that happiness is some messed-up Jenga game ready to topple at the slightest shout from my mother or at the coldness of your voice. A universe where we're comfortable and sure and we have kittens.

Maybe there's a universe where we fall asleep next to each other every night — my face buried in your neck, hugging your warmth, you tend to the scars on my bodies and I tend to the wounds on your mind — and we both don't want anything or anybody else. Where we don't want more, we just want each other.

And maybe, just maybe, there is a universe where I did not meet you. Just someone I see in the corridors and I do a polite greeting, a universe where I do not make you poems, stories and proses, where there is no ache when I am in front of the faculty, and maybe in that universe, I do not hear your name from classes far away. In that universe you do not go; I did not ruin you nor did you ruin me.

In that universe, the eight day does exist. It happened and that day came.

If you think of it all this way, then it's like neither of us did anything wrong.

If this theory holds, well, by the law of averages, there had to be one universe — just this one — where we don't end up together. Here and now just happens to be it. If you think of it this way, nothing is our fault.

You just found me in the wrong universe. That's all. You just found me in this universe, that's all.

There are so many more universes. The ones where I believe in love and where I don't hate myself and where I never feel the need to kamikaze relationships. The ones where you do not scream in silence, you married earlier, you didn't become a bad person, you have never walked to a place lost just to find yourself. A universe where we can have nice things. It's helpful, right?

Because in another universe you would have loved me first, and in another universe I would have loved you last.

Evolution

I'm tired of the way love turns us into animals.

My dried mouth gave up on roaring. I'm sick of you tearing my flesh with your teeth, stalking me like prey in the shower, lunging and growling and getting in and catching me in your arms; I'm exhausted of pawing, and panting, and hunting and wagging. Of course at first, it was thrilling. That we have no words for this. That we are just our bodies. Primal and Simple.

But look at our cortex. Look at our thumbs. Look at our intelligence; our speech

My love, whether we like it or not, we are human.

You are what you love

You are a kind hearted person.

You are a writer as well.

You are a preacher of verses and eloquence.

You are golden.

But also –

You are selfish.

You are a tyrant bent on destruction.

You are cold.

You are ashes.

Empire II

My love for you is the only empire I will have ever built.

When it falls, as all empires do, my professional career in empire building will be over.

I will retreat to a house along the shores.

I will dabble in the art of cross-stitching and embroidery.

I will borrow books, and continue writing.

I will fold the clean clothes.

I will wash the dishes.

I will never dream of having the whole world ever again.

Karina Angela

I must remind myself—

They can't tell that I didn't write this bit immediately after that a plethora of others.

The six months where I ignored the manuscript are not visible to the readers I have accumulated throughout these years.

The bit where I put my head in my hands and muttered "Why am I writing this?" takes place in the single space between the period and the next capital letter. Between early mornings and sundown

As soon as I shove that character in, she has always been there and someone will probably say that she's the emotional center

And the book couldn't have been written without her, and nobody will know that I thought of her last, because I am afraid that she will be too much like me, that she was my dream, being in love with a young man who was rich, smart and ready to defy the stars and all that.

She was almost the antagonist

And for about ten minutes she was the science major

And now she has been there since you started reading.

I am sanding down the places where my editor found splinters kicking up a fine dust of adjectives and dropped phrases and eventually it will all be polished to a high shine and hopefully when someone looks into it they'll see their own face reflected back instead of mine.

Pink Ribbon in Blue Cradles

I tell him: here is where the spoon and fork go, where his cologne smells good, what to wear to this; how to tie a tie, what to say in response to a gift, here is how to turn down food twice before accepting the third time, here is how to be nice to someone who is never nice to you, here is how you clear a table, here is how you clear someone else's table, here is how you thank someone for dinner, for wine, for being there, here is how to state your opinion in a quiet and differential way so they will be more accepting, here is how to ask someone to do something and not be considered bossy, here is how to say "no" and not sound angry.

I tell him: watch her bag, "love, you're in the way"; go open the door for that woman, she's carrying her baby; there's a child behind you, don't step back; you just cut in front of them, at least send them an apologetic look; please tell that man to shut up, I am too small to punch him and I might if he keeps talking; please tell that man to stop offering her drinks, she doesn't want any and he's not listening; please tell your friends I am uncomfortable when they say my legs look pretty.

he asks me how I keep everything straight, he says, "you're always so polite, always looking out for everybody," he asks me how I know how to run a house and a business and a party, how I know all of these small lessons in etiquette as if they were ingrained in me, how I fold my hands on my lap, how I weigh every situation I walk into in a fraction of an instant, how I always seem to know what to do

and I love him dearly but I would love to live in a world where I would not have to know these things, I would love to be like him and walk with my spine straight at a train station, sit with my legs wide, I would love to leave messes wherever I went and expect that someone will clean them, to never worry that I'm drinking or eating or laughing or talking too much, I would love to be able to calm down at a bar and just talk instead of worrying that the girl next to me is too drunk to walk and the person talking to her isn't letting her go home, I would love to be blind to the things that I know, I would love to be rude and loud and to take up the space that the mountain range in me wants to expand to

But I tell him: here is how I survive. It is all I know how to do.

Promises

I do not write you poems because I loved you the most. There are other souls for me to call after, to miss, to immortalize. But when I am most proud of my words yours is the opinion I want and cannot have.

I had been saving my books until they were right. I had been saving my poems until I believed them, waiting for the right time for the world to see that my dreams can be their dreams, that they can use my fantasies to drown their realities.

I could not handle putting shoddy work in your hands. I could not handle your disappointment, your polite interest. But this silence is worse. I would have rather you read them. I would rather you hate them.

"Send them to me on Schoology, I won't publish them, it's a way for me to remember you."

I forgot to send them to you, is that the reason why you forgot me?

Magnitude

I am not asking for him to be clean. I know there is too much blood on his hands to ever be wiped clean as he was when he was ten years old and the only blood he knew came from scraped knees and swollen knuckles. I am not asking for him to be free. I know that his hands are tied to his weapons now. I find blades under his skin, and mines buried in his heart, and bullets clenched between his teeth. I have spent hours picking out gunpowder residue from under his fingernails and between the lines of his palms. I know that his feet will always drag under the weight of a world he only thought to save. I am not asking for a miracle. I am not asking for the sun and the stars to move for him. I am not asking for a do-over, a fresh start, a time machine. I am not asking for absolution, even though I say he has done nothing wrong. I am not even asking for happiness, even though he damn well deserves it. All I am asking is a little peace so that he may sleep without his fists clenched battle-ready at his sides and ice dripping from his bones.

Celestial Bodies

You are not my sun; the sun is supposed to be warm and active, the sun is always meant to stay.

You were my daylight shooting star; beautiful and spontaneous; a shooting star was always meant to leave.

Grow

Your love helped me grow

I See it.

I'm a little different now, because of you.

Maybe it's not noticeable to other people, but I now see it.

I see it when I turn off my favorite song because it reminds me too much of you.

I see it in pictures, in the insincerity of my smile.

I see it when I meet someone new and can only think of the ways they will hurt me or they will leave me or they will let me cry so much at night.

I see it when I look in the mirror and wonder why I just wasn't good enough.

I should've listened to my mother when she said I was just a child and you were a grown man who flourished in his agency.

I should've listened to all of my friends when they all said you were soon to be taking vows of matrimony.

You gave me a pair of rose-colored glasses and showed me how it felt to be loved.

You shielded me from your harsh intentions and led me to believe in you, in us.

But when the glasses came off, you were gone, and the only thing left of me was regret.

So much regret.

Because you are a groomer.

And finally after all this time.

I see it.

Fireworks

The fireworks that you have set in my heart are still going, they have been leaving ashes ever since.

Blackness

He's too deep in the dark that he became darkness himself, you cannot break him out, and he's too consumed by it. And remember, you can always shine a light onto a black object, but it'll remain black, that is its nature.

Doors

He has opened up a door and I can't close it.

Months have passed and I have closed the door but his face and laughter keeps knocking and knocking until my hands tremble to unlatch its hooks

Return to Carthage

Dear heart, I'm begging you. Please let him go. He'll never care for you the way you care for him. He doesn't think about you. And I can't keep living like this. Thinking about him all the time sends longing and hope. Please. Let him go. There's so much I need to do in life. And I can't do any of it if I keep on drowning in this ocean of misery every single day. So please for my sake, let him go.

A Nonnet in Forgetting

I cannot remember anymore

The warmth of your arms is long gone

Even your smile is distant

Your words were tender lies;

I have forgotten

The love, the pain

That made me.

What were –

We?

Forgiveness

He once told me "I'm human and God knows that" I am certain that is true. Nights of talking against his father, the hardness that wraps his voice, the many times he had questioned the most Holy, Himself. I am so sure, there are times his kind eyes dilated to anger, contempt; where his hands have destroyed and left everything into dust. "I will always be forgiven, and you will be too,"

I am certain that it may be true as well. Nights where I thought of ending it all, I yell hurtful words at my mother, times when I ever really was lies. I am so sure the kindness I own are tossed aside in favor of hate, where my hands do not make people alive, they kill them instead.

"I shouldn't have to apologize for being human," I replied "And neither should you,"

In the Dark

The possibility of an almost haunts me but the certainty that there never really was scares me more. –

Exceptional

Somebody once told me that I am an exceptional person and (I laughed so childishly my chest hurt) I think I didn't see the pain in his eyes because I was so busy demeaning myself.

He tells them about my keen memory, how he is taken aback on how I could recall past events and memories so vividly as if I'm repainting a picture and my words were the color; He talks about my perception, the crisp of my voice when I reason in his lectures, noticing quickly the things others cannot pick up about easily.

He is prideful that I am talented, that he likes the sound of my lilting voice during our short walks in our early mornings, which he revels in my intellect because I was so astute for my age. He loves my passion on the stage. He memorizes the fluid movements of my hands when I write or when I letter; that he rereads my works twice: once, to see myself; twice, to see himself.

Somebody once told me I am an exceptional person, without him, I wonder if I really was.

Dear Lady of La Naval,

I wonder has he ever collapse at your altar as I have. If he had looked so tired and weary, to the point where his forehead had creased? If after a week of shouting, frustration, of his problems and his misgivings; does he kneel, pray and cry?

I wonder, has he been enthralled at the stained glass as I have. If he had looked at the delicate art and wondered at the history and love put into it. If he had stood in awe of the entrance of your grand doors and held his breath at the sight of your golden facades.

I wonder, has he looked forward to meeting you every day and has he been renewed with such hope that he smiled for the future. If he knows he can walk here in your garden and he feels found after being lost for so long.

I wonder if you had fallen in love with his haunting,enchanting,wonderful voice when he spoke about you with such reverence only he can utter towards large crowds. If you blush at the way he laughs so endearingly his smile lines and crooked teeth never fade; if you had also thought that this man, who had cherished your truths and ideals, defended you in heartbreaking situations, made you want to sing about love, always, always, always now until the end, was forever?

I wonder, if you have ever cried yourself to sleep when he left with no warning? Thinking, thinking, thinking, if you, if you, if you were enough? I wonder if you desperately wait for his return, even for just a little while, even for an hour, even for just a minute, Just to see his face, his smile and his laugh.

Dear Lady of La Naval, I wonder if you ever see him in me, just as much as I see him in you.

Colors

We are not black and white. There are so many shades of grey in between what we were and are and will be. Tell me that there was something there, please, because I can't be the only one who loses my breath after every single conversation or after every single smile or after every touch.

Dreams

I want to love you somewhere past the sun where it won't matter where you left your promises. I want to love you so hard that it echoes backward and undoes everything that has hurt you. I will sing you to sleep even when my voice cracks with the weight of your past and I will stay with you, always, no matter what.

Five things I should have told him and the one thing I did.

I was supposed to tell him that these past months were probably just a test run; probably to test distance, to test patience, to test endurance. That he didn't really leave me alone, standing still. That he didn't make me wait; that every morning he is still walking by.

I was supposed to tell him I loathed his name. I hated the way his words turned my heart into hope and the next day it was shattered; hated the way that I was all of seventeen and he was not. His touch, his smile and his mind makes my blood boil and bleed backward.

I was supposed to tell him I would have given the world, lay down my poetry, eradicate my mind, bargained and bartered, begged him to come back for just a day, just an hour, just a minute, I think every saint and martyr took pity on me that day and gave me seconds.

I was supposed to tell him, that the moment I met his silence, the emptiness and the void. There were only tears and screams that left my mouth. Only the way my eyes looked so hollow and so broken, only my trembling and shaking fingers when I hear his name, only this pain.

I was supposed to tell him that it's okay. Comfort him in the way only I know, by telling him everything we had shared, cried over, discoursed against with remains deeply in the marrow of my bones; that five months in seventeen or be it thirty-five years could not compare to twelve maybe twenty-four, maybe could not compare to a matrimony

vi. "hello"

Rotation

Is that what you think? That I think that highly of myself? My dear, there are nights that I cry myself to sleep because I don't even believe that I should be in this world.

The last thing I want is attention.

I will have panic attacks because of my panic attacks that attract people's attention. I am so terrified of a person's disapproval. That I will hurt myself making them happy

I think that the earth revolves around anyone but me

I have always believed that I am only a supporting character in this book called Life

But do I say this all out loud?

No

Of course not.

Because you know how to fight

With violence and contempt

I know how to fight with silence

My only outlet is my pen that I

Wield as my sword

The ink pouring out

As my blood

Soul, Mind, Heart

What you did not realize is that if souls were water, mine was ice and it was ready to freeze you to death.

What you did not realize was that if my mind was words it would be an endless poem comprised of a universe, a black hole you would no doubt lose yourself in.

What you did not realize is that if hearts were structures mine would be a hotel; exciting and fun to explore, nice to visit, but no one wants to live there.

Cold

And you know what the worst thing of all was? I felt so cold; I was shivering in the halls, hugging myself for warmth. I felt cold even though you left me in the summer

How to love a Protomartyr

1. Foolishly.

He does not really care, whether you are exceptional or not. You are nothing but amusement in a world of the mundane familiar. Savor that.

2. Unabashedly.

He is beyond your comprehension, and the study of him is your rapture. There is nothing here that you could ever understand. You cannot understand the way he walks straight or whenever he writes he connects his letter "t" with the next. You do not look away. You do not want to look away.

3. Breathlessly.

When did you first feel it? When did the all-encompassing pressure begin to grow? Does it matter? You cannot breathe. It's too much. You want more.

4. Desperately.

You are lost and losing more the longer you wander here, in this garden of wrong turns and impossible riddles. Inside he calls to you and promises safe passage in payment for faith.

5. Helplessly.

Of course, you love him. You always have. He found you and made you his, isn't it such a gift?

6. Recklessly.

You will burn yourself out in a blaze of glory in hopes that a universe will notice, but the thrill of the burn is worth it in its own right.

7. Blindly.

You know nothing of him because you have never really confronted it. Whatever you had with him, lurks behind you always, never seen but always noticed. Whisper your prayers to the shadows, maybe one day, he will listen.

8. Ceaselessly.

It is just out of reach, constantly flitting in and out of existence, close enough to taunt, far enough to evade your grasping claws. You'll catch him one day. He has already caught you.

9. Thunderously.

Fight. Tear. Rend. Bleed. Blood is the oldest call to the gods and he will listen. If you spill enough that is.

10. Inevitably.

It was always going to lead you here, to the point where nothing has ever mattered but who you are and the fact that you will never change again. He does not care for you, so there is no judgement here.

11. Harmoniously.

You cannot coexist with him for they are more than can ever be explained but you can become more-than-you if you try, a fragile counterpoint to their divine song.

12. Freely.

This was chosen for you, by you, by chance but the reward is an endless being, live without the boundaries of 'too much and what if's'.

13. Collectively.

You are but a collection of parts, but every piece of yourself calls out in rapture of his use in service to the perfect whole you can become.

14. Exclusively.

No one loves him as you do, you alone know the truth to what happened, you alone know how to fill the vacuum of nothing that cradles you. You will never fill it.

1. Foolishly.

This cannot continue. There is nothing there to love anymore.

Absence

I was forced to survive in your absence.

I am alarmed that nobody will smell the way you did in the morning.

I am worried they will hate how I constantly need to go out of the room when it gets too cold, or because I feel the start of a panic attack coming.

I am scared that nobody will kiss me like they care because nobody will care like you.

I am terrified nobody will read my works and reading them backwards, bottom to up and say I am amazing.

I am anxious they will not buy me milk, because they have noticed I can never go a day without it.

I am fearful that I will not love anyone the way I loved just by your smile, alone.

I am frightened of what my life has been looking like without you, and I am afraid no one will take my ideas seriously and help me try to envision them out.

I have been afraid to not find love again, right before I found you.

At night I recall all of them who left. I try to remember the fall out, the relapses, the unheard pleas of staying. The aftermath of burnt trees and collapsing citadels.

But this feels different… this feels worse. You leaving was the biggest nail in the coffin, so far.

I am afraid of the morning sun since you haven't been walking next to me, even if you always hear me humming songs, that aren't just for your tastes.

I am terrified of the way I look makeup and in golden earrings because you aren't there to tell me how beautiful I am.

I am anxious of writing because I know I'll want to show you every word I have written.

I am scared of my reflection because I don't see you when I look at myself anymore.

I am afraid of lots of things without you, but most of all I am afraid no one will love me after you. That no one will even come close. And that even if they did… I still wouldn't be enough.

Just like I wasn't for you.

Envy

I envy the winds who still witness and caress you. They taunt me of a future, where one can be two.

Affirmation

When you plunged the knife into me you also began bleeding. You ripped my heart out of my chest and it got stuck on your engagement ring on the way out.

You left me vulnerable, cold, angry and terribly sad. All the things you said I would have never experienced.

Your wife smells like rain and looks like fire and those are your two favorite things and she sat down right at the center of your heart. She knew your smile lines longer, kissed your hands more tenderly than I have. She must have been more capable to heal your scars. She must have soothed your demons long before I came into the picture. She must have been waiting for you to go home early as well. She must have worried over you not sleeping right at night. She must have loved your smile, your face and your laugh as much as I have.

But…you know how much I love you, you knew how much I loved you. Right?

It has to be why you left? Right? Because you know how much I love you and that kills you, right?

It has to kill you. It has to rip your heart out too. It has to.

Haptics

I think even my body knew you would not stay. My eyes would linger and drown in your eyes, as if I'm not going to live another day, my hands would linger on the ledge of the stairs, because I cannot hold yours, I think even my voice falters whenever I feel the rush of the time ticking by because we have been talking for so long. My legs would know when you're going to leave the premises of green and yellow, because they have this sense of running and running, just to catch you.

Somehow I like to think my body knows you would not stay but my heart had no clue.

Funeral

My death will be grand. I will see to it. My highest ambition is to crawl out from the ashes and laugh at the things they thought could bury me, I will write all of the stories I have never told and turn people who destroyed every part of me into stone.

Truth

There is God in you.
Even if you laugh at me, I think it is true.

Warmth

When I was five, I burned my hand on the stove, my mother always warned me to never touch things like that scalding kettle but at such a young age, my soul seeks warmth.

When I was seventeen, I burned my hand on the palm of his hands, my mother always warned me to never touch things like a man who had a name, a reputation, but at such a young age, my soul still seeks warmth.

Gifts


"If you forget me, think of our gifts to Aphrodite and all the loveliness that we shared. All the violet tiaras, braided rosebuds, dill and crocus twined around my young neck. Let the goddess of love ruin your life, because I cannot wear baby's breath anymore"

Blessing

Maybe never getting to say goodbye is the closest I am allowed to get to a blessing. Maybe never hearing your final words to me was a good thing because I would have never had the courage to say hello to another boy who might someday hold my heart again.

Gone Girl

That precocious little girl inside me is gone. I don't know how to tell you I don't know where she is, nor do I have the heart to.

Cautionary Tale

They will speak of my name, yes, in mockery, scorn, and contempt. They will tell the tale of a poor young girl foolish enough to think he had loved her as well; that same young girl is a bitch, has an attitude, snobbish and rude.

They leave out the parts where I choose to fashion out flower crowns of smiles and hugs, the part where he told me lies, the part where that poor young girl doesn't dare to try and rip other people apart just like what they've done to her.

If I were to be honest, I am not the cautionary tale to be spoken out to children. You are.

Grenade

A doctor once told me I love too much. When the people I know, tell me I love too much, I take it as a compliment.

Because I am self-aware enough to know that I have yet to love someone without giving too much of myself, without losing myself in the storm.

Because I am not the kind of girl who loves half-heartedly, who keeps one foot in the direction of safety, I am not the girl who loves simply.

I have not forgotten how to love gracefully. When I love, those men, have the privilege to live forever.

I love like a massive earthquake, like cracks in the foundation - shattering the asphalt and leaving myself in naked ruins. Taking time and patience, to rebuild.

And yet, I have no interest in loving safely, in loving in pieces - putting it all back into tidy little boxes and pretending it doesn't have the power to consume me. I do not want to pretend that it does not have the power to destroy.

I spent years dreaming of control, of safety, so obsessed with the promise of keeping my heart in order that I nearly threw it all away.

So when my heart races at the sight of his smile, I listen. Because I remember trying so hard to force myself to be okay and the way my heart would beat so slowly that waking up felt like a victory. And I realize I have never been in control. Not of this hand grenade heart I own.

So I've let myself make a home in my own body, let this heartbeat call the shots.

Because I am lucky that it still can.

Because…. I trust that it knows how to put the pieces back together when it's over.

So when you tell me that I just love too much, I will nod.

But I will never again put the pin back in it in just to pretend I have control.

Swan Song

Perhaps you will be my swan song
taking with you the things I thought I had belong

Point of No Return

What do you do when you can feel him? You feel him entirely. Where he is, where he has been and where he will be? What do you do when your eyes flutter at the sound of his voice? A hymn to the north, the determination and the coldness; his touch, ricochets through the marrow your bones and everything you thought you knew that was right and wrong is clouded by lust and passion. What do you do? You wait. The flowers in my common room keep dying, because damn it, I have been waiting for so long.

Aftertaste

The aftertaste of a goodbye is the worst to get rid off. It is bitter, forced and you find yourself vomiting the excess pain. You try so hard to eat sweet lies to soothe your tongue.

Bruised

Your hands stay firm at your side, and if I look closely, they tremble at times. They clench and unclench, they are rough and calloused. When I look at them, I just see a man trying to restraining himself, from hitting something or someone. Your eyes, do not shine in the light, they may hold wisdom, understanding, they may also hold chuckles and hope. When I look at them, I just see a man with cold and calculating eyes, trying to hide so many secrets and mysteries that he doesn't want to say out loud.

I look at you and see all the ways a soul can bruise.

Contradictions

He told me that the most painful thing in the world is to forget. I digress. I think the most painful thing in the world is to remember.

Departures

the day

you told me it was over

my heart felt like it was weighing too much to tip a scale.

a lot of people say their own hearts break.

not mine, I suppose

it felt even bigger, heavier, full of all of the promises, lessons, plans, laughter, quiet afternoons with each other.

all of the time never spent together.

Musings in Cold Sheets

There are mornings that I wake up and I am completely consumed by the thought of you. It's been months but I swear I can still see your smile. I bought new sheets the day I told you I missed you and you didn't reply. I laid in bed watching movies of people losing love as quickly as they found it and I cried until my nose was so stuffed up I couldn't see your smile anymore.

Anyway my point is that when these mornings come I lay in bed and feel as sorry for myself as I possibly can. Because maybe I could have done better, maybe I could have fought less and taken more time to be good and whole without you, but regardless of all the things that add up over time, I loved you. I loved you like I would want someone to love myself. I loved you so entirely, so strongly that love wasn't even a word anymore, and it was just you. And the day you left, the day I learned I couldn't get to say goodbye, I screamed so hard into my pillow I felt the world move. So I lay in my bed and I feel sorry for myself because our love is something you find once. One time in one life with one heart and you are you. And I am me. And I may not ever feel us again. But I loved you. And I may have not been the best, but we… we were.

Honesty

After months of aching, of only feeling your sunlight, of only drowning in your words and laughter, after nights of crying myself to a mute shudder, of holding myself on the bathroom floor because I don't want my brothers and my own father touch my shoulder; waiting and yearning for some kind of response. Dragging myself into the future, telling myself that someday, somehow you will return. I know that it has hurt me a lot. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't breathe. I was consumed by the love I thought I had received. I drank it all up and I become intoxicated as it seeped down to my bones that I didn't realize I was corroding myself. I convinced my little heart that the world was black and white, but we were the only ones screaming color only to find out I was color blind.

Despite admitting to myself that I scream out at night or that I find my feet in front of the edge of those stairs, despite admitting to myself that I was wrong, that this was wrong, I haven't been honest with myself.

I blamed you. I hated you. I wanted you to also ache, also drown, and also wait for a reply only for me to be gone the next days, the next weeks, and the next months. I wanted you to wake up in cold blood, ruing the day we met, and how this could have been avoided. I wanted you to think of the color of my lip tint when your wife puts her lipstick on. I wanted you to hurt the way I hurt; to feel the hurt, the humiliation, of you trying so hard not to think of my wit whenever someone answers you with the same boldness I had become known for, maybe remember my passion in scattered pieces of poetry that you stumble upon.

There are still days when I felt like I could have done better, scrubbed my skin a little rougher as a method of removing your firm touches. I could have said no and left. Maybe I could have been disgusted when you said I was so mature for my age and maybe, just maybe, I could have stopped it all before the fear, the pain and the tears.

Maybe, just maybe, I could have left you in the same way you left me.

In an effort to be more honest with myself. I am looking forward to the days where your memory does not haunt me and I look up to the sun and not think of your smile and your jokes, I'm sure that there will come a time that I will not jump and hide from someone who looks like you. I know there will come a time where you will be just a memory to laugh at, a cautionary tale I will tell my children and from then on I will repair the floodgates of my heart that you once climbed over. I know that there will be a day with no more drowning, crying and waiting.

But for now, I will have to be honest with myself.

It still hurts.

I still remember.

I still drown.

I still cry,

I still wait.

And honestly, that is still completely fine.

Disenchantment

leave little one,
there is no more heart to that man;
no more man to that beast.

Leave little one,
carry out your wonderful plans
think of that wolf, the least.