Good Night

I like the nights when sleeping together is really just sleeping together. Being reached for when inching away. The warmth of another body that slowly but surely causes you to sweat. Snores light and consistent. The calm energy of another body.

You know, this comes with the type of love that accepts that you’ll drool on their arm all night. Tries to tangle your limbs together but arms and legs will only bend so far. A light sleeper that kisses your cheek as you lie awake, just listening to every breath.

In, out, in, out
In
Out
In
Out

Soft breaths that rock you to sleep.

I like the nights where sleeping together means just that.

Hurt / I’m Alright

I looked within myself and found parts of you everywhere. Tangled in my DNA, I was disgusted with myself for even being related. Anger causes me to mutter insults similar to yours. We lace them with pettiness and manipulation. Each meant to cause turmoil to the target. Hoping they’d replay in their heads over and over and over until they couldn’t sleep at night. They’d claw at their own skin the same way I do now just thinking about what was said.

I’m hurt. I’m resentful. I was picked over and made an option by someone who claimed they wouldn’t do such a thing. Suddenly I was a burden to a man who promised to provide until he no longer could. I tell people I’ve come a long way but a long way only means I’m no longer crying every night. I’m not standing in random lines and feeling my heart break into pieces again.

I’m trying forgiveness. It’s for me, not you. But I’m not ready yet.
You broke my heart. I tell people that even though it sucks, at least no one can hurt me worst than you have.

I wrote this over the summer, when all I felt towards you was anger and hurt. Now that a few months have passed, I’ve looked within myself to see a person who isn’t you. She told me that she picks your good qualities to imitate while not claiming your negative ones. I followed suit and began to imitate your hard work, persistence, and taste for odd combinations.

My ability to express myself allows me to stay above water while you drown in words you don’t mean or haven’t said. My compassion and care for others will always lead me to find love in places love wasn’t meant to be.

I’m not you
And I don’t have to be.

Fall In Love With Me

I told them that I wouldn’t fall in love with a writer. I told myself to avoid them like a plague. They’ve brought me nothing but heartache. Words they said would last forever; in reality they simply faded away as time passed. The poems I would reread every so often. The pain never did disappear until I had moved on to someone else. Sometimes I remembered their names. One started a B and ended with a Y. He visited for a few days, I loved him quickly and fiercely. His
inspiration was the strongest and hardest.

Yet I find myself sinking into his writing as if he crafted each one for me. Stringing together a necklace only I can wear. Each one an intimate look into his life. He’d explain the inspiration, some of heartbreak, anger, and regret. Nonetheless I enjoyed listening to him recite them. They only became about me later on, he’d kiss me and remind me that I’m beautiful. Nights were for resetting. Kisses were meant to trail down my back. My soul needed protection for my innocence was too sweet. I saved some.

I told myself I wouldn’t fall for a writer and here I am. Some habits never die.

I told them I wasn’t a writer so every poem I wrote had the opportunity to sound corny. I gave them the chance to tell me where I could do better as I made them apart of my history. I latched on. I let them know that this was for them and I didn’t want anyone to know. “I want to be the one that got away.” They’d remember me words, burning in their memories.

Words I said meant everything until they lost their meaning from repetition, practicing so it was perfect for boys who later disappeared. Only protecting themselves from the harsh realities of a girl who loved them and leave.

He reminded me he wasn’t a writer, so I took comfort in the fact and fell in love. I laid on his chest and wrote out notes for him to enjoy when he woke up. Reminders that my love wouldn’t fade away, as his eyes scanned over the words, he’ll slowly became another chapter. Your body is beautiful, so let me kiss it. I love you so corny but I don’t have other words. I’m fragile because you told me so. He’ll wake up one day, only with a few poems to hold him.

I told them I wouldn’t fall in love with a writer but I never told them not to fall in love with me.

Tired

We sat at dinner; I was the youngest yet I proclaimed, “I feel so old.” Heads turned towards me, sighs escaped pressed lips, clearly I was wrong.

Trying to fix my words, I struggled over an explanation. Nothing came out right. “I felt that way before too. I felt like I didn’t have any time left. Young people feel like they’re running out of time and older people feel like they have a lot of time.” She shared my story better than I had. It only mattered to me that I wasn’t alone.

I started having panic attacks over the summer. They were triggered by the idea that there isn’t much time left for the world if we don’t start taking care of it. I began to think about where I’ll go. Heaven or an abyss of nothingness. I got hot and thought a murder-suicide would be the best answer. The choice to die was better than no choice at all. Right?

My panic attacks triggered something else, a realization that I don’t have enough time to do everything I want to do. I’m afraid. I’m only 21 and I don’t have enough time to do everything. I’m constantly in a race to beat the clock. Often making lists of things to do, I never follow through. I don’t have enough time.

I just want to stop.

He tells me to “slow down.” I can’t.

I just don’t think I’ll survive if I do.

Why I’m Here

The night was cold, I held the tea close to my body hoping the warmth would seep through. He looked at me as we walked, “you’re a good writer. You put your raw emotions in.”

The compliment took me by surprise. Never knowing whether my words were making an impact, I let them disappear into myself. I only tried again when I met a boy and allowed him to be my muse. I only tried when my sadness took over, 24 hours felt like an eternity, and I just wanted to curl up in a ball. I needed to feel human again and I found my inspiration in lonely nights and soaked pillows.

My recent essays from a professor said I was unclear. Grammar and spelling were never strong subjects for me. The red marks were just another part of me, blood dripping on the pages. My self esteem was hit.

I always said I’m not a writer. I just enjoy writing.

His admiration for my raw feelings brought me back to a place I had forgotten. Whatever you read, it’s from a part of my heart.

Maybe I am a writer.

I’ll Write About You

I don’t want to write about you. I don’t want you to feel hotness under your skin as you realize my words were written for you. I don’t want to rehash forgotten feelings and days of sorrow memories.

I’m not use to being ignored. No. That’s not it. I’m not use to someone who once enjoyed my company, no longer want to be apart of my life. It’s deeper than growing apart. It’s that you removed yourself. I don’t experience that often. It hurts.

This is not what I meant to do at all. I don’t want to share hurt feelings from yesterday’s sadness. I said I wouldn’t do that.

Let me try again.

Here I am, writing about you. Writing for you. Writing so you know how I feel. Through our distance you’ll never know the impact you had on my life. I’ve gotten over you, met other people, but sometimes I want to share these stories with you. I know you’ll like them. You’ll laugh with me while I stumble through my day as excitement tries to race the words coming out my mouth.

I’m happy for you in whatever you’re doing. I’m sure you’re working hard and you deserve it.

I’m a lover before a fighter.

And you are love.

At your best, you are love.

Just Blaze

I realized the friendship was over when i mentioned a producer you like and you didn’t react. Years ago I made sure the mental note was there. I’d repeated the name until it tasted like metal. “There. I’ll never forget.” You had moved on. The mental note turned into a frivolous fact.

I realized too many years had gone by on both our parts. We still lived on the night of January 7th. Or was it the 8th? It was oddly warm. That’s all I remember. You offered to get me a manicure. I declined. So instead you bought me chipotle. We sat in a chilled car. Both of us too nervous to make a move. Well we kissed. But other than that, nothing happened.

We held onto that night so tightly. As though we’d have more like it. We planned trips to see each other. Those never happened. We barely even spoke. Yet we continued to chew on bitter tidbits about each other.

Now here I am. Wondering how I held onto someone, I barely knew anymore, for so long.