Everyone comes with scars,
But you can love them away.
I told you that I wasn't perfect,
You told me the same
'You don't get it, I-"
'Shh, I love you, imperfections and all',
You said
But a month later,
Everything changed
You looked at me with disgust-
Like I was **** on legs
'I'm breaking up with you',
You said
'Why', I asked
'You're not perfect, I don't love you'
Hysterical sobs, at the loss of-
What I thought was love
'But I love you!',
I screamed at the closed door,
For you walked out on me
Your previous words meant nothing
I'm not worth loving, why?
The cuts on my thighs?
My eyes full of hurt?
My mouth full of lies?
The pain you caused,
Hurt more than the fresh cuts-
I just made
These were dedicated to you
Etched into my skin,
The perfect reminder of the pain you caused
'I love you' it said,
Used my blood to make-
a small heart on my tear-stained cheek
Then I slashed both wrists
They were dedicated to you
I love you
Hours later, remembering something-
You left
Found me lying there,
With the note cut into my hand,
'I love you' it said
The perfect reminder of the pain you caused

You decide to look the other way,
I'll cry a little bit
And smile at our memories
Because they were my best ones yet.
Because they were with you.

Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t just been the backseat of your car,
Intoxicated. My first drunk hook up. My first. Period.
I picture myself being champagne on Valentine’s Day.
I picture myself being you, nervous in the car, holding Starbucks
because you know I love coffee. Sometimes, I picture myself as her,
calling you a stalker and ignoring your calls,
but then I see myself. I call you beautiful,
turn you into poetry, laugh at your bad jokes,
I see myself as I become your drunk Wednesday night
when you’re sad. I see myself as I say no,
I become a “this is not a good idea”
and you a “we’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.”
We laugh because this hurts too much.
You take her out for dinner and I burrow money
for Plan B because you forgot you don’t like condoms
and clearly have no idea how children are made.
I have already named him. He has your curls and
my anxiety. He is smart. Except, I never wanted kids and
you would be a great father. Instead, you tell her
the beach reminds you of her and I cry in a McDonald’s
bathroom with my friend as relief floods through me that
the test comes negative. I stop talking to you,
move forward, meet someone new and before long
see myself becoming you. Because isn’t that the cycle?
Bad men turn good women into bad women who turn
good men into bad men. I’ll set him free so he can hurt
someone like me, and I drink red wine as I read her
poems about him and me.

i.

I intentionally failed to wish you
a happy birthday this year,
though I know significant dates,
hours, moments, people,
by heart.
I still search for you in boys
I mistake for bandages,
the ones with eyes almost
the same shade of your hazels,
lips resounding your laughter,
resembling a wisp of your smile,
But they aren't you.

ii.

Sometimes I pretend you're dead,
because it's less painful
to stop reaching out into voids.

iii.

My mom still blames you
for everything that preceded that year.
Though you probably had no idea what happened
when we stopped talking altogether.
Can you believe it's almost been three years?

iv.

My dad wonders who was my 'one that got away'
Though, I'm pretty sure he knows
it's you.

v.

Remember how I mentioned Sylvia Plath?
How most everything she wrote
brimmed with melancholy?
How I loved every single word?
Especially that piece
where she talked about expectations
and disappointments.
You'll never know that
up to this day I still think
people are selfish enough to
always, eventually turn into the latter.
Even you.

vi.

It's sad I never got the chance
to tell you about Ted.
How she loved him so much,
she just had to dive headfirst
into the flames-- burning herself,
what was left of her--
after she found out
he never really loved her
the same way
she loved him
in the first place.

vii.

truth is,
some of us
never learn to accept
the love we think we deserve.

viii.

I don't know if you still read my poems
or if you still think about me,
about us, sometimes.
Every time you fall asleep past eleven,
a part of me hopes you do.
because I always remember you--
in birthday candles, red ribbons,
off-tune voice records, golden arches,
concrete sidewalks, pedestrian lanes,
the last flickers of city lights
softly fading out of the blue.
I remember you
in everything, in everywhere,
in everyone.
It's useless, no matter how much I try to forget.
No matter how much I just want to forget.
I want to forget.

But, how could I?

When forgetting means forsaking
the very memory of you.

I used to love my curves.
My plump hips,
My thick thighs,
My ***** chest,
My chubby cheeks.
All the curves, stretch marks, and the lumps,
Especially my lumps,
Made me.
And I loved me.

Until I met you.
When we first met, you worshiped my curves.
Kissed on my chest,
Gripped my thighs.
You used to say,
“I love my baby’s fat ***,”
As you would squeeze my thighs
and I would laugh.

But then reality decided;
“Babe you should really workout some”
“*** I really think you should lose some weight”
Or you would talk of other girls,
Thinner girls.
“Country girls are so hot”
“I saw this girl today at work and she was ****.”

So now I’m looking in a mirror.
In my black sports bra
And my mixed match pink underwear.
All I see looking back,
is not
my plump hips,
My thick thighs,
My ***** chest
Or my chubby cheeks,
Not even my lumps,
Hell, especially my lumps.

I see my belly overflow the hem of my underwear,
I see my ******* resting on my stomach,
I see the extra skin around my neck,
And I notice the way my stomach jiggles when I walk.

The sound of my feet hitting the ground,
The way things vibrate around me when I walk,
My shortness of breath uphill,
And the way my thighs touch each other instead of having that gap.
That cute gap.
That gap that skinny girls have.

But now,
I cover myself more.
The curvy girl who used to wear crop tops confidently,
Now wears a hoodie to hide.
Secretly apologizing to everyone who ever saw her curves.
Her plump hips.
Her thick thighs.
Her ***** chest.
Apologizing to everyone whoever saw,
Her.

And I compare myself to every girl around me.
‘If I had her legs’
‘Her stomach’
‘Her face’
Maybe,
Just maybe,
You would be saying,
“Nerdy girls are hot”
Or bragging to your friends
“I have this girl and she’s so ****”
And maybe,
Just maybe,
You would still be here.

And I would laugh,
Smile,
And blush
And we would be happy.
Together.

But instead,
I’m looking at this mirror,
And all I see
Is a fat girl
Looking back at me.