I want you to love me. Or maybe I just want to feel the emotions that come with shaking hands running up my thigh. I want you. I want you like the planet wants someone to care about her. I care about you. *******, I care, but you don't call me anymore and I don't think that my mind is strong enough to hold the weight of your broken promises and your ******* excuses. No, my mind isn't strong enough, but I'll probably just ignore my intuition like I normally do. Like how whenever you kiss me, you disappear. Yeah, like that. I'll ignore the voice in my head telling me to leave and I'll bury my ambitions in your curly brown hair, because you're so enticing, and you know what you do to me. When we're laying in between my sheets on a hazy Sunday afternoon (always a Sunday- you loved the irony) with your arms wrapped so tightly around me that I can't ******* speak- i'll keep my mouth shut and quiet my thoughts and try not to think about it, because I want to get to know you, the real you. Not this ******* dominant charade you so cleverly act out. I want to see your mind, your soul. I want you to feel the rush of falling in love and I want it to frighten you. So- tell me, what fuels your writing? Who hurt you? Do you like dogs? What do you do when it rains? What are you afraid of? I hope it's not me and all the ideas I have collected at the bottom of an old dusty jar. And I hope you aren't afraid of the way i scream when it rains and how often I cry. I hope you aren't frightened by how I always keep quiet about my sister and what happened to her, and how I just stare out of the window for days. I hope it doesn't anger you- how I keep quiet about my ex lovers because every time you ask me about them, I can still feel the sting of a slap across my face. And I'm sorry I don't talk about my dad, it's just all so fresh and I'm sorry I'm not good enough for you, and how I'm so distant on occasion. I hope you aren't afraid of long walks and nature, because that's the only way to calm me down and stop the anxiety from spilling over my tightly sealed lid and- I hope you're afraid of space, because *******, I just want to be close to you. So tell me about your childhood, your fears, tell me about how you still sleep with a nightlight and how every time fireworks go off, you cry. Tell me about how much you love your family, and how much you hate yourself. Tell me about your longing for love because I promise, I promise I could give it to you. And tell me about how badly you want to be whole again, and how embarrassed you are of your dating experience. Tell me about how you're afraid of open water because it reminds you of all the space you have in your heart that isn't being filled. Tell me about how you never know how to end a poem and I promise, I promise I'll help you.

No really, it's okay babe I adore you too, you can keep breaking my heart and expecting me to pick up all the pieces. It's okay, because I like being told that I'm second best, and I like being reserved for sloppy nights. So let me dive between your legs babe, no, really it's okay, you can tell me you don't like me then call me at 2 in the morning to come ****. No, really it's okay, it's okay because I liked you but you only liked my skin, but only when it was bare, and really, it's okay, because I like being ignored and I like second guessing myself, and my life, and I enjoy being punished. So babe let me please you, that's all I want to do because dear god, I just want to keep you. God knows I want to keep you, and how ******* cruel of him to keep raking me over the same coals over, and over, and ******* over until my skin doesn't know the difference between fire and your touch on my thighs begging for more. (maybe it is my fault) But when they began to close, you began to retreat. And *******, you'll never know how much I wanted you, and you'll never know how badly you hurt me, and you'll never know how badly I wanted you to want me. But you didn't want me, I was too real for you. I was too much of a human being, and you couldn't ******* handle it. I did things not because I enjoyed it, but because that's the only way I could get your attention. So really babe, it's okay. Keep talking to me until 4 in the morning when I have to be up at 5, keep changing normal conversations into sexts you won't remember in a week. And please, babe, keep ignoring me because if that's what you have to do to tolerate me every couple of months, then for gods sake, ******* do it. Keep vaguely answering my pleas with "yep," "yeah," and "haha." Please keep hurting me. Because I ******* need it, babe. Really, it's okay, I'm fine, I'm not filled with anxiety and on the night you talked to me, I didn't spend it in the bathroom getting sick. No babe, it's okay, I like sleeping in the bathtub and waking up in a cold sweat, and I like lingering on the good feelings because it makes it that much easier to forget about the bad ones. I deserve you. I deserve to be with someone who is so capable of dropping me like a penny in a wishing well, only to forget what your original intentions were. No. Babe, really. It's okay. I'll keep skipping over the same songs, and driving past the same spots, and running away from what's chasing me, because really, we all knew I was going to do that anyway. All my friends say that I looked so happy when I knew that you liked me but I don't think you ever did. And I'm afraid to ask you. Because the variable is already known, and I don't feel like accepting it. So I'll keep looking for 'x' even though it's right the **** in front of me. ******* Vanessa, get your **** together. Stop drinking every Wednesday night and waking up every Thursday morning wishing you were somewhere else. The people are right, Vanessa, you feel way too ******* much and maybe you should stop letting your existence as a human get in the way of you ******* the people you want to ****, because we both know he's not going to wait for your ***. So really, babe, it's okay. I'll keep searching while secretly holding space for you in my bed. You said yours was bigger, but trust me, it's not. It never was. So really babe, it's okay. it's okay. I told you that the thing I hated the most was lying, but really. It's okay.

And the sound of shattering glass sounds familiar and comforting. It sounds like home, feels like home. But you don't know what home is anymore. Is it the pain you feel when he ignores you? Or is it the bite of the blade you can't see, but can feel. Home is defined as 'the place where one lives permanently.' If that's the case, then home must be loneliness. Home must be your hugs, home must be the needle, home must be the drugs, it must be the ***** that still stains your rug. Because you can somehow feel all of these things at once, and it scares you. It scares you how comfortable you've become in all of this, and you want to get out. But home is permanent. Maybe you can run away. Where would you run to? Would you run to the girl who broke your heart? She's your home too. Would you run to his place and sleep in his bed? He'll use you and be gone the next day. Would you climb a mountain? You'd get discouraged and jump off. Or would you simply disappear? Disappearing has always been easy for you. Would you run through the smoke? Or sit there, breathe it in. Do you really want to run away? Or is that your enigmatic way of saying you want to stay? You want to stay home, stay in this fog because you don't know anything else. It feels like home but something is still missing. Maybe you can't run away, but you sure as hell can move out. So do it, move out. Move into her arms, because she's begging for a roommate, and probably wouldn't even make you pay the rent. Move into his mind, where he says there's not enough space for you, but you brought your boxes anyway. Move into yourself. You're lonely and you're body is calling out. You leave the vacancy sign there. Because you're tired of the familiar, the comforting. You moved out, you're homeless now. So tell me, was it everything you wanted and more? Because you're a nomad now, drifting from one persons arms to another's. Even though she's had her arms open this whole time. But the rent was due and you couldn't pay so you split. You split and you left and you won't come back. So, tell me, what is home? *******, what
Is
Home?
Home is her arms where you're not allowed to spend the night,
Home was his couch where he would **** your neck and not call for three days,
Home is in your bed, where you've staged your death a thousand times.
Home is in these words that you're writing right now, and ******* I wish you would just pay attention,
Home is in her eyes but every time you stare into them she apologizes and moves on,
Home was his arms where he held you too tight and you begged and begged for him just to talk to you, but no he wouldn't talk to you he'll never talk to you because more he wants more it's more he wants and you couldn't ******* give it to him, and
Home is in the sky where every night you tear at your wrists just to get there, and
Home is at the bottom of whatever bottle of ***** you're on now you can't remember because you're drunk you're always drunk and she's always sad and you can't help her and you hate yourself, and home
Home is in her sadness her self hatred,
Home is in the shards of glass behind your dresser that you so desperately reach for and,
Home is in the bar and in the streets and in their beds and you're always moving you're always moving, why can't you stay and,
Home is in her but like I said you can't pay the rent because it's already occupied and,
Home is in the confusion, and you say you want to move out but you don't, you don't want to move out because it adds to your ******* personality, makes you different, makes you mysterious, makes you special and, maybe once you become whole then you can move out. because whoever the **** is out there whether it be god or satan or allah or ******* buddha knows that you've written hundreds of goodbyes, and they're all in the nightstand next to your bed, and you want to move out but not out of the chaos but out of your body, out of your mind, out of your soul because- Every time, every time you called someone, or something home..they moved out. Vacated the premises. Missed the rent. And now your real estate is being foreclosed on and dear god, dear god you just want to move out.

They say that looking doesn't commit things to memory, but that doesn't explain how I've memorized every curve of your body without laying a hand. That doesn't explain how I know where the sun hits your hair, because it's a few shades lighter. That doesn't explain how I know I'm in love with you without laying my lips anywhere on your-
They say that there's more to love than looks, so that explains how I feel about you. Your soul shines bright, and it blinds me. I put sunglasses on because I can't stand to not be looking at your beauty. Your thoughts scream out at me, and I love getting lost in your mind. Your mind is a beautiful messy thing. Just like you. Just like me. Just like us? Us? What is us? I love you and I don't know what to do. Babe. Baby girl. Love.
- I didn't do my work in class today because I was watching you read your book. I was watching you put your head into the crook of your elbow, and I was thinking to myself 'God I wish she would lay in my arms.'
-I remember watching you cover your arms with your sleeves, and I remember wanting to roll them back up and kiss the scars away. They say that looking doesn't commit things to memory, but that doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense because the juxtaposition of your eyes on my eyes, makes everything feel okay.
-I remember sitting in class. I remember sitting in class, and you were wearing a skirt and ******* it, I couldn't keep my eyes off of you. I felt my gaze traveling up your legs, and I stopped myself from reaching over and touching you. I stopped myself because I knew it was for the better. I remember you reading your book, and staring at the pages and occasionally looking off into the distance. I always wondered what you were thinking.
-I remember hugging you and not wanting to let go.
-I remember sitting on the park bench, talking about the people I've ****** and looking at you. On the park bench. With the bruises on your neck, and the sparkle in your eyes, and oh god, I stopped myself. I stopped myself. I stopped myself.
- I remember waking up one morning after taking pills and chasing them with a few (4) bottles of *****. I remember waking up, and I remember wishing I was waking up to you. Because I know the day I wake up with you next to me will be the day I'm happy.
-I want to make you tea. I want to show you the world of low budget indie films. I want to make you-
I want you to see yourself through my eyes. Because through my eyes, you're the most beautiful creature on this hopeless earth. I hope you find happiness, and I hope you find love. I hope you find love. I hope you find love. I hope you find happiness. I hope you find love.
-I remember sitting on the stairs with you, and you were looking down at your hands probably thinking 'oh god what have I done.' I wanted to hold your hands then. So bad.
-I remember the first time you came over, you asked me a thousand questions and it made me so happy. You're so inquisitive. I remember you stopping conversation to go off and pick flowers. I still have them. I still have them. I still have them. I still have you. I still have you. I still have that-
Taste in my mouth. It tastes like regret. It takes like vulnerability, and it tastes like love. It tastes like the words I can't take back. The words I so desperately mean. Those words. The words. The words. 'I love you.'

(A) gloomy night with the rain falling on my
(B)ack, yet you're not here, you're never here. Please, just get in your
(C)ar. Come to my place, meet me at the
(D)iner where we first met. Turns out, it's
(E)xactly how we left it. And that's not even
(F)air, because we aren't how we used to be when we first
(G)ot here. We're different now, we drifted and you no longer love me and it feels like
(H)ell. Because I still love you. I always loved you. You were always my one and
(I) loved you. But that's the past, and now I'm
(J)ust a figment of your imagination- who the hell have I been
(K)idding? I was just a passing thought, the
(L)ittle rain droplet on the window that you follow, but,
(M)arvelously,
(N)ever remember.
(O)h lover, come to my place. I can make you your favorite kind of
(P)ancakes. I still remember how you
(Q)uestioned if I was ever really alive. I suppose you have your answer now.
(R)un, run far away because you're over me, but I still remember your middle name.
(T)ucker, your middle name was tucker and your first name was as
(U)nique and beautiful as you are. Do you remember how I would kiss your freckles? You'd get embarrassed, but that was my favorite kind of
(V)ernacular. Your cute, embarrassed language was so enticing, and I longed to hear you speak. The rain is falling on my back, and you're not here. That's probably a good thing. The rain is falling and its
(W)ashing away what remains of you from my
(X)enophobic skin. You're washing away and I'm so glad it finally happened.
(Y)ou're gone, you're ******* gone. You've been gone for a while now, you left a while ago, but it was me, who refused to let go of something so disgusting and yet somehow still amazing. You're gone now. You're gone, and I finally feel completely,
(Z)aftig.

Your cologne is still on my dress,
and it's haunting me now.
Just when I want to forget you,
your cologne is on my dress.
And your shirt is still in my closet,
how did this all fall through?
Your shirt is still in my closet.
Sometimes I put it on and pretend, pretend you still care.
And your ring is still on my finger.
Was there nothing in that promise?
I remember that night,
the night we became one.
The night I'll have to tell my daughter about when she turns 14.
Maybe I should take it off.
I still remember your voice,
and sometimes I scream so loud I can almost drown it out.
-
Forget everything you know about love,
and ***,
and death.
Because when you walked into my life, I realized that everything I knew was a watered-down version of passion.
Your kiss is still on my skin,
burning me,
painfully this time.
I used to like the burn.
Not anymore.
I was to slice my skin off,
just to stop feeling the burning.
Why be scared of hell,
when I already feel it?
And my neck, my neck is still bruised,
my thighs-are still bruised.
My lips, my lips are still sore,
and my back-it's still bleeding.
Your taste-is still on my tongue,
and somehow it feels like you're still holding my hand.
Even though you're not.
You're using that hand to pull my shirt over my head,
and as you lean over me-
I can still smell your ******* cologne.
Try not to get it on my clothes.
After tonight, after tonight
I want to forget you.
So I'll surrender tonight, but only tonight.
-
Funny what you think of after the wreckage.
My limbs are still intact,
and you're still on top of me.
I promised myself it would only be one last time.
But then you smiled,
and held my hand,
and tied me to the bed.
And now, now I can't leave.
Because your cologne is on my dress.
Your cologne is on my dress,
and I'm tied to this bed.
And your hands are on my chest.
And your lips are on my neck.
And your voice is in my head.
I'm trying to make sense of this mess,
but I can't.
I can't when your cologne is on my dress.
-
You told me that you wanted to be the should for me to cry on,
and you didn't care
if I ruined your shirt.
Funny how it worked out,
because you're the one with your hands around my throat.
I used to ask for it,
not anymore.
Not since your strong hands and smooth wit were replaced.
Replaced by sloppy drunkenness and quick slaps across the face.
-
I don't mind you using me.
I don't mind you eating me from the inside,
out.
Because even though you make parts of my body light up and ignite,
and even though you'll talk to me until 6 in the morning,
and
even though you'll let me pick the movies, you won't care to know me.
You won't care to ask me 'why.'
Your hands will still be around my neck.
I will still be tied to this bed.
Your hands will still be on my chest,
and,
your cologne will
never
leave
my
dress.