it’s midnight and i’m
overthinking, of course
because what else would i be doing?
it’s my favorite nighttime activity,
you know
letting my brain pick apart
every conversation we’ve ever had,
letting it bully my heart into believing
i made it all up in my head;
he could never love me anyways.
the tears are streaming freely now,
and i’m not exactly sure why,
all i know is i’m tired
and it’s not because it’s midnight.
-a.c.b

it’s at night i feel the most alone,
when my insecurities come out to play
and the only light
is coming from the flickering lightbulb
beside my bed.
you see, this is why
i time stamp all my poems written after 11pm, because i know after that
is entering
the Lonely Hours, as i call them
and anything i write then
should be taken with a grain of salt.
it’s not on purpose,
it’s just because i know myself
and i know
the Lonely Hours will always come.
-a.c.b

i have a bad habit.
at night,
when i can’t sleep
and there’s no more room for me to think,
i drink.
i drink your words off the very page,
the rhymes tickling my throat,
the words dancing on my lips.
i have a bad habit.
when even my own mind
is too busy
for me to visit,
i resort to one thing:
i get drunk on your words.

i don’t sleep
in a black lacy bra and ***** shorts
with the perfect messy bun and
smoky eyeshadow
but instead,
usually a pair of old shorts
and a baggy t-shirt of my dad’s,
my hair hanging straight
over my shoulders.
you may think i’ve got
great style
when you see me at school,
with my thick dark lashes
and glossy lips
and hair styled back,
but as soon as i get home
the sweats are pulled on
right after the glasses are.
my cheery smile
replaced by a passive face,
usually worse,
and a notebook and pen
already finding themselves
in my hands.
gone is the girl
with the flirty attitude and skinny jeans.
the Real Me lies in wait
for somebody to see past
skin deep.
-a.c.b

i feel myself slipping away.
most days i don't know who i am.
i'm being worked down to the bone,
nothing i do feels right anymore.
i feel nothing anymore.

i must ask myself,
“what is it that
i’m really afraid of?”
i guess, all this time
i’ve been under the impression that
we feel the same way.
just suppressing our feelings until
we can make sense of them but
what if i’m wrong?
what if you meant it
when you said that
you were riding this one out solo?
i guess that’s what’s stopping me
from telling you,
from giving you that letter.
at this point,
i don’t know if i could take
another romantic failure, another
set of months spent
crying and fuming
and writing angsty breakup poems
about a boy i never even dated.
i guess i’m still afraid of
rejection.