I don't understand why you do the things you do.
In and out of my life like it's a game of Hide and Seek.
And I just want it to end.
You rip through my heart and race through my bloodstream like a virus that just wants revenge.
You're on my mind like a drug even though it's been six months and I just want you to ******* leave.
My brain is an unlocked jail cell that you refuse to evacuate even though my body is a burning building and you will certainly die.

Why don't you just ******* go?

I find it funny how you always said that
you loved me.
And yet you disappeared wihthout a trace
here I am three years later and I still want to see your
stupid face.
And I know that I'll get that ******* anchor tattoo
the one you promised to never remove.
I'll never have a ceiling fan in my bedroom
because I'm certain it will always remind me of you.

Why did it have to be you?

I look up at night and think of our songs
I see the clouds and I know you're flying a kite somewhere.
Are you painting your blue-grey skies?

I'll never know what truly happened,
but I can only assume it's not great.
You haven't responded in years,
and yet, I still cannot bring myself to hate
everything that you did or had the audacity to say.  

When I think about living to be an old man I think of the fact that you never will.
You always said that you never would but I was always convinced that you could.

And this isn't really a poem, but a letter that somewhat rhymes.
And I think that's okay because I don't owe the world anything.
I don't write anything for anyone except myself

So I guess this letter is for me.

He is as hopeless as flying a kite made of clouds.
Now, some may say that that was impossible, improbable.
Some may even call it magical.
He did not see it that way.

In his eyes, he was as useful as a fraying rope.
Always on the edge of breaking,
Unstable.

His chest felt empty,
As if the dust left from his shattered heart had finally blown away.
The only thing there was his ribcage,
Trapping lungs that barely worked.

He believed he was hopeless.

To her, that was not the case.

She took his soul and painted grey and blue skies,
And used her own soul to glue him back together.

She flew her cloud kite proudly through the sky,
Doing tricks and running with it,
Smiling the whole time.

He is as hopeless as flying a kite made of clouds.

He is not hopeless.

Real men don’t ****?
Was it a ghost,
Or the clothes she chose to wear?
Because it was warm,
And she thought it would be safe to wear some shorts?

Was it the hijab you couldn’t resist?
The jeans that showed just a little ankle?
He sandals?
The sundress with the floppy big hat?

You are supposed to be who we look up to,
But instead, we look away, covering as much of our skin as we can,
Because we feel like if we flaunt,
We’ll be next.

I just want to wear shorts to school
Without my male teacher telling me that he can see too much.
That my shoulders are too distracting.

Maybe he should bring that up with his wife,
If he can’t do anything better with his life.

Real men don’t ****?
Then you all must be fake.

Hey Shakespeare,
Could you write a happy ending?
I want to sit and read a book,
Where I finally feel I’m winning.

I wish I didn’t care all the time,
But here we are,
I’m wanting your hand in mine

I love being in love,
But it hurts every time
Can someone please explain
why I still try?