things I can’t tell you anymore – part I

i’ve been hiding since you left.
i’m building my walls back up like clockwork.
i hide behind layers of mascara and loads of smoke, food pushed across a plate and smiles that don’t reach.

i pretend not to recognize you when I see you. i know it seems so fucking cold, but there’s a wall between us,
it’s got “PULLED APART” graffitied across.

i love your goddam freckles and moles, but now i look away, trying not to count them all in the back of my head.

not sure what happened to all my defenses, but it felt like time to hide again.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write
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There is no future for us here 

soon the earth will split itself open 
and I will be folding oceans trying to get to you.
there is no future for us here, 
I know that now.

there is no future for us here, but right now I am trying to catch you,
 in all the places the streetlights fall 
(on bedsheets and carpet floors)
 and keep you there;
remembering you only in this softness.

right now I am holding you, 
and holding you, 
and holding you, 
like my hands can’t believe 
they’re touching something so goddamn holy.

I have run my fingers a thousand times 
over your lips,
 and your eyes, 
and the place your neck curves into your chest; 
like memorizing roadmaps,
 like leaving breadcrumbs to follow right back home.

there is no future for us here, 
but I’ll hold your heart in my own chest,
 study its grunts and sighs 
before all the hurt catches up to me.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write 

confession: a series – part I

no, your body is not a puzzle.
you cannot pick yourself apart into a million pieces until there is nothing left of you but marks where you once stood.

No, your body is not made of paper.
you cannot burn yourself into the ground until there is nothing left of you but ashes where you once stood.

No, your body is not a dress size.
you cannot peel off layer after layer of yourself until there is nothing left but ragged bones where you once stood.

No, your body is not a battle ground.
you cannot go to war with yourself and your mind until there is nothing left but dead bodies where you once stood.

 

tell me I never even mattered to you

Make this easier for me; tell me I never meant a thing to you.
Tell me my eyes were nothing special, that you never got lost in them and they never made you feel like drowning. That when you told me they looked like universes, you really meant black-holes; you really meant all the dark and none of the stars.

And my hands; how they only looked like wounds about to break open; how you only held them to keep them from bleeding out. Tell me how you never let go because you weren’t ready to watch me break yet. Tell me how you hold her hands close to your chest now, hold them to your neck and your lips; how they never shake like mine did.

Make this easier for me. Tell me you never loved me at all.
Tell me I was a passing breeze and you wanted to get caught in a storm. Tell me you were looking for something so much more; tell me how you had to settle for less. Tell me how the next breeze came stronger and heavy with rain; how you couldn’t wait to chase after it.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

the way we touch.

i often think back to the first night you told me you loved me:
how adamant i was about never dating the same person twice.
how i was so afraid you didn’t mean it because you were drunk.
when you said those three words, they weren’t an apology.
those three words weren’t a drunken comment.
those three words were home.

i often think back to the first night you told me you loved me:
standing in the aftermath of almost fights and unspoken conversations.
you, holding my hands as you tell me you’ll be the exception.
dancing with you in the bar after hours.
holding on to you as you swung me around.
being home.

i often think back to the first night you told me you loved me:
i think back to that night almost every day.
i think back to the next morning when i was sure it was a dream.
i think of how far we’ve come from the first time we met, to the first time hanging out, to the time you decided we weren’t working, to the night i cried over someone that didn’t want me.
when you’re half asleep and murmur, “love you.” my heart aches.
when you kiss me goodbye and say, “be careful.” my heart aches.
when i look at how handsome you are, my heart aches.
when you hold my hand as i do my homework, or reach out as you’re playing vidja games, my heart aches.
because when you say, “I love you”, it’s like hearing it for the first time, and you are the best i could ever hope for.

– excerpt from a book i’ll never write

love without apologies

if the first time he says, “I love you.” sounds more of an apology than a confession, run.
tell him you’ve heard it before.
tell him you’ve heard it better, in the way the trees speak with their leaves and in the way the earth sings to its streams.
tell him you’ve heard it better in the sky and the clouds just after it rains and everything is born again.
tell him you are full of far too much life to be half loved.
like he’s sorry for you.
like he is holding a broken thing.
like every time he kisses you it tastes like regret and the morning-afters are all bitter with it.
tell him of all the places you’ve hurt, those are battle-scars.
that you’ve fought wars for this type of love.
that you’ve forgotten what it was like to be tame.
tell him you’ve found lionesses under your skin.
tell him they won’t rest for mediocre things.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write