It became so easy for me to forget you once I gave myself a fighting chance.
As soon as I removed any possibility of seeing your face, the anger did its job to erase you.
You used to be an every day thought.
Now, I only remember you when something reminds of the horrors you put my heart through.
The word “he” used to mean you and you meant pain.
Now “he” is love and something simply good.
You are hundreds and hundreds of miles away
and so is my mind.
maybe that’s why you never did seem so far.
“There is a reason, you know, that you choose ones like him.”
My mother knows me all too well.
But this time I was ready and this time I cared.
You cared too.
Look where that got us.
Poetry Contest! Be sure to read the rules!
via Poetry Contest — KaylaAnn
It was all so staged and hopeful.
We would breathe out fake love for each other in the back seat of my car.
In the dark, it was easy to pretend that your eyes were looking
for mine and not what existed below my chin.
It was easy to pretend that every time you touched me,
it was because you couldn’t stand not to.
It was easy to pretend that as soon as you left you’d miss me
all the way home.
Living in my head.
Fat drops of water threw themselves against the thick glass with a repetitive tap. when the rain met the glass, which all the while remained unmovable, they collapsed into streams, rolling their way to the bottom of the window and then pooling up again at the seam where the metal door met the window. It all seemed so cruel to me, as I lie in the back of my car with my hands folded over my stomach and legs crossed at the ankles, the glass never embraces the rain and I’m certain it couldn’t even if it wanted to. Who did this hurt more? The glass wanting so badly to grab its lover in its arms and take it as part of itself? or maybe the rain who threw itself so mercilessly, hoping that someday the glass would open its arms and beg for the rain to come closer, to sit down, wrap up and maybe stay a while. Maybe, and more likely, the glass never intended on giving the rain a second thought. A rough hand spreads itself open on my stomach, pulling me away from the rain and the window and their hopeless love affair but it isn’t until he tells me he has to leave that I remember I am not the only one here.
There is a boy I know who calls me butterfly.
He says I remind him of gardens and spring,
and that he wants to see butterflies pinned in my hair.
I tell him it’s unfair, to see me like he does.
and every single time he says he doesn’t care.
It is the oldest cliché in the book,
for me to say that I’m not quite sure who I am.
I think I used to know
and then you happened. that isn’t fair.
I know, to blame you for such a loss.
But that’s the way the timeline has been stitched.
there is before you
and there is after you
and that’s enough evidence for me.