You’ve got a hand rolled cigarette in between your teeth, and I worry about the smoke in your lungs and your head, but you never worry about what you could do to me. Light me up and then throw me on the concrete; smother me underneath the bottom of your shoe.
The North Pole and the South Pole are opposite to each other, yet they are exactly the same: cold, dry, barren, bleak. They are opposite and they are the same. You’ve got one foot in each pole and you don’t have a choice of which side you will fall over on. You don’t have a choice.
Your hands always had this purple-ish hue to them. I would hold them and they would be cold all the time. Lack of sleep? More like lack of everything.
I bet the pills are smooth and shiny and the water feels cold while sliding down your throat. Subconsciously choke me until I feel the pain that you feel. I’d let you mistreat me as long as you’re with me. Smother your romantic feelings underneath the bottom of your shoe.
You’re no good with words. Repeat yourself over and over again, repeat yourself over and over again, but never say “I miss you” more than once. You tell me you have a flame to show me the way but you only use it to light your cigarettes. You’re good with numbers. You were solving math problems while I was trying to solve your problems.
Suppose that two people walk the opposite way on the same path. They cannot meet, but somehow they do. I always walk past you, and i just want to scream look at me. But not even I want to look at me.
This was a disaster from the very beginning. We tried to paint a masterpiece using sticks and mud, somehow it worked for a while until your rain came down in torrents and washed it all away. Don’t tell people that I forced you to end this. I would’ve stayed if you’d wanted. I’d come back from the dead for you.
You are a statue carved out of anger and frustration; weathered down by your salty tears, not that I’ve ever seen you cry. You don’t show any emotion. You didn’t even smile when you looked at me.
This poem is not a diss, it is constructive criticism. You told me from the start that you were sorry for whatever might happen, but what you should’ve done was lay down the cold hard truth; you are more unstable than you made yourself out to be.
No amount of research about vision can make a blind person see. All of the articles I read were just this vague outline of what should be expected. There was one thing that those articles got right: we fell into that fucking 90%.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but apparently boys with broken bones can break my heart too. I hate that movie. You know, the one with the kids and that thing you wrote on your cast? The whole reason that I feel this way in the first place? I never told you about that. You never asked. You never asked me about anything.
The school bus. Imagine yourself sitting there beside me, trying to hide your anxiety and repeatedly telling your limbs to stop shaking— but the more you thought about it the more that they would quiver. Your cheek so close to my cheek that you could hear my heavy breaths; I was anxious too.
Some days I say “fuck you” because you made me feel awful. Some days I say “fuck you” because you made me feel like I was standing in a beautiful forest of trees grown from everything that I love. You had a tree in that forest. It still stands, but not like a monument, like a headstone.
Back to the school bus. I always have a tendency to not say or do the things that I want to. Looks like you’ve changed that. I remember walking down to my room that night with a feeling that you had dug up from long ago. My sweater was still lingering of your scent, and I buried my face into it, wanting every part of my body to relive that first moment.
You’re just like a fish in a storm drain. You keep swimming around in the dark with nowhere to go. Was I the light that led you home? I felt as though I had been herding a lost lamb, but I liked that feeling. I felt like I was existing for someone other than myself.
I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason, and I don’t believe in soulmates, but I do believe in love. Love is my god, I cannot know if it truly exists yet, but I have faith. I have been killed many times by heartbreak and have been sent to hell. Somebody please give me the heaven that I need. All you ever gave me was limbo.
A call or text would be nice, a simple ‘how are you?’ and maybe I would be less negative all of the time. At least I’m not as pathetic as I was a year ago. People usually change but I think you’ve stayed the same, which is ironic because you are never the same, and that will never change.
You’re this huge tree in my forest. It’s raining there now. But the thing about rain is that afterwards, there is growth, and there is green, and everything smells so nice and fresh, like flowers; like a bottle of perfume. One day, I will find the courage to burn you down. I will smother the last flame underneath the bottom of my shoe.
a.d. // eleven and twenty-seven
