Infatuation is a dangerous thing
and I've been in(love)fatuated with you
since you first said my name.
It wasn't romantic at all,
it was just,
you.

I know you never told me you'd stay
or that you loved me,
or anyone,
and I'm sorry that this has taken so long.

But I'm in love with how
you've never dragged your hands across my skin,
and whispered my name in the dark,
and how you never even think more of me
than your friend with a pretty face and full lips
you call when you're lonely.  

I'm sorry enough for the both of us
that I'm not strong enough
just to say
no.

Someone told me
you can't write (p)oetry ab(o)ut things
you don't want to romanticiz(e).

So for a long (t)ime
(because of w(r)ong people like (y)ou)
I d(i)dn't write drunk,
becau(s)e the(n) I c(o)uldn't
guard my feelings.

But now I'm drunk as hell
and no(t)hing in my life
is close to romantic
and I don't have to explain to you
why (b)oats, oc(e)ans, and words
are the only things
that e(a)se my open wo(u)nds.

I don'(t) have to tell you why
I don't scream or cry or f(i)ght
when I think about how many of my (f)riends
killed themselves.
I write instead,
and it's not romantic.

I am not
in love
with words.

I am
in love
with them
and they're no longer here,
breathing, holding my hand,
and singing me songs about rivers
and how we'll always find each other.

But we won't,
because there's not a
single f(u)cking romantic thing
about how I'll never hold their hands
again.

So I drink,
and I write,
and I do not (l)isten
to people like you.

Don't worry about him,
he doesn't love you
and he never did.

That's okay, love.
He's not full of hate and lust
just because he fell in love with someone else.
It's not his fault,
and it's certainly not yours.  

It's strange, I know,
that you don't scream or cry or even frown
because you can't feel anything at all.
It's four in the morning and you're drinking
his favourite tea and trying to keep your heart
beating without his name resonating throughout your chest -
and you can't do that yet, but you will soon.

I know it's hard
and all the bones in your body
sometimes ache with loneliness -
just don't think of him.

I know it's not much,
but think of how lovely your hands look
when you're holding your favourite mug of tea.

He told me,
'Love your neighbor as yourself.'
And I'm so, so sorry
but what if I don't love myself?

I swear
I'm trying,
and I think I can love them
more than I love myself,
but I'm so, so sorry
if I can't.