unrequited

I know you don’t love me. I know you don’t think about what it would be like to trace your fingertips along the edge of my jaw or across my eyelids and on the inside of my knee.

I know that I think about you as sunlight and that you don’t think about me at all. I know it’s a one-sided kind of love, the kind where you don’t taste acid on your tongue when you see someone’s hand around my own.

I know you don’t love me. I know you don’t, but I can’t help the fact that I love you. I love you so much that I slur it in drunken hazes and think about it when I go to sleep. I wish I could press my love into every inch of your skin and bruise it into your heart so that it could beat to the sound of my love, but you’re too out of reach and I’m too hard to love. Please know that I love you more than I can begin to stand. Please let me know if one day you wake up and suddenly see me in a different way.

I know you don’t feel me in your bones, but if you ripped my chest open all you’d find is your smile and your eyes and your laugh in the inseam of my heart. You’ll find the love that I possess, and the bleeding cracks from the love that you don’t.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

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temporary

You’re good at being cold in the same way love is good at being distant.
And you don’t know my freckles or the skin on the back of my fingers; you don’t even know about the scar on my foot, but you are something i think my heart has always wanted to handle.  Your love is cold in the way it is always distant, but when I love it always has to be down to the core.
I am whole-hearted in the way that I am always yours, but you wouldn’t know love if it hit you.  You can’t taste it in the space between us when we’re laying in the same fucking sheets, so I don’t know why I thought this would be different.
Maybe I just wanted to be whole-hearted, wanted to be yours for a while, wanted to love the skin of your fingers, wanted the warmth of your smile, wanted you to squeeze my heart into your fist just to see how well it fits, wanted to dig all the bad times out from under this arrow and ask you if your love is something I could maybe borrow.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

nostalgia

when you kiss it feels like love.
it always feels like love and suddenly, somebody is in love with your laugh and your eyes, the way you eat spaghetti, and the way your smile is always crooked.
They’re in love and maybe you’re someone who should be loved, someone who deserves it.

But then there’s the tidal wave after three years or one month or five months and fourteen days, when suddenly they look at you and your laugh isn’t anything special and the way your eyes line with laughter at the sides no longer does anything for them.

It’s falling and it’s screaming and then it’s “why the fuck did you say all those things in the first place?” And “oh god, oh my god”.
it’s becoming “the one they used to love” or at least you think, because well, you’re not really sure how they felt, not anymore.
but they had to have meant it, right? right?

It’s nostalgic, and addictive, and it’s your ripped up heart on the ground.
it’s remembering the way crooked smiles used to make them laugh, but now it makes them look away. 

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

November Love

All this talk about summer love and strawberry lips and golden skin, but no one ever talks about loving when the sky is dark grey, when the trees won’t stop shaking, and the wind moans your name.

So let me tell you about loving when the streets are cold, when you wake to crisp morning air and tangled bodies. Let me tell you about the fog that escapes your mouth before you kiss; how it moves like ghosts dancing to ballads between open lips.
Let me tell you about rose-red cheeks and rose-red noses and how good his chest feels when you’re trying to keep warm.  About rain pelting hard against your windshield and your heart pelting harder against your chest when his hands touch you.
About how warm bodies feel when everything around you is cold. About how your bones shake like the trees and the powerlines and sweaters have never felt as good as they do when they smell just like him.
All this talk about summer love and no one ever talks about loving when you’re the only lit matches in a city made of ice.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

a series of drafts – part ii

it’s so wrong to think of her body on yours and i don’t want to write a poem about it. i don’t want to make this suffering pretty. i don’t want to make it worth anything. i just want it to fucking fade, because if it doesn’t, i will.

is she anything like I was?
what’s her favorite part of it? is it the same or different? because now you can commit enough to commit to something-
her on your couch or in your car.

either one. either car.

it’s not cruel of me to wish i had never talked to you that night, any night.
once i shut that door it should’ve been locked. i should’ve burned down the house, i should’ve made sure you never got the chance to apologize, because i should’ve been gone.

but i’m gone now.
so it counts, i guess, even though you’re gone too.

disordered eating

i’ve always been insecure.  i’ve never felt confident in my own skin.
finally i learned to abuse my body to make sure i was always in control.
i wasn’t going to hurt again, not without deciding who, when, and why.
it was my own defense mechanism that made me feel like i was finally in control.
except i wasn’t.
technically, i’m still not. i still cry for hours after i try on pants. i still have my days where i won’t eat because i’ve made myself nauseous thinking about every bad little thing.
i’m still terrified that i’ll wake up one day being told i’m not enough.
i can’t remember who i was before i was afraid of everything.
what i can remember is that eating was always weird for me.
i knew i had to be a “good girl” about it.
i knew i shouldn’t obsess, but obsession was expected from me by society.
i would buy the food i wasn’t obsessed with only to check out in an aisle where magazines boasted women folded over themselves, thin and glossy, even beautiful in a pout, bold letters underneath promising new ways to obsess about food.
i didn’t really care about being thin, but i knew i should care.
i didn’t care if other people were big, but i felt out of control when i felt big.
i felt swollen or greasy or gross; sometimes all of the above.
i loved when i could forget about it, but i often couldn’t. feeling like those other people that ate less judged me for eating more – even though i never judged anyone for what they ate or how often.
it was a fine line.
we could joke about diets and calories and complain about how wide we were – but if you talked about it too much, threw away too many lunches, didn’t smile fast enough, you were crazy. it became this odd hole, where i’d eat to fix things, but eating made me feel guilty. i couldn’t do it normally. three meals was too many, then not enough. one meal would have thousands of calories one day, the next i would spread out celery sticks, never eating them, just to look. i just wanted to be normal.
and something about eating took that from me.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write