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.

now we're in the backseat,
and my stomachs turning.
maybe i just want people in my life
in an un-romantic way.
i like to get under their skin,
and steal their souls story.
i love how everyone is different,
and i can't hate a single thing,
because it makes them human;
the girls who steal bikes at midnight,
and the guys who offer their apartment
out at night.
i find myself in the wrong crowd,
i find myself in these situations,
in the backseat,
with someone who's speaks a
language far from consent
and it's all desperation.
his hands on my neck,
and there's no attraction,
physically.
mentally he has a way of making
my head spin faster than the
alchohol,
and i'm not sure if i'm
kissing him sober,
or if the night itself is drunk,
and i'm waiting for the sun to shine
a light on my mistakes,
as it always does.
i take their stories, they take mine,
but i'm not sure what part of it's true.
the girl in the backseat,
the girl shaking,
the rigid lips and bites.
maybe we won't speak,
maybe he'll lecture me again,
for using my body as a token
to pay my way.
love is an expensive thing.

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.

dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

Innocence is the days when
I thought that monsters
lived under the bed rather
than slept right beside me.

It was the times I feared
heights almost as much as
I now fear brooding stares.

Back when I thought
passionate love was the
only kind worth having
— that I now wish for a
lover who loves quietly.

Innocence was thinking
danger was an ill-advised
adventure, not a man.

It was admiring a tornado
heart and not realizing the
damage it would cause.

I never wanted to be the kind of mistake that you wake up to the next morning,
Wishing you could start over.

I never wanted to be the girl you went to because you know she'll give you her time of day,
Even when you've never given her yours.

I never wanted to feel a pull towards you,
When I know that there's nothing on the other end.

I never wanted to do this with you because I know that once It's done,
We're never going to be the same again.

I didn't think about where his hands were, or about how they shouldn’t be where they were. I wasn’t thinking of the time and the fact that my curfew was ticking closer and closer. I wasn’t thinking about how this boy’s backseat was so uncomfortable compared to yours.
All I was thinking of, while his hands explored and time was ticking, was how you’re with her.
And that was all it took.