It's not that I don't like you.

It's just that the last boy I kissed left a bitter taste on my lips and I can't seem to get it off.

It's not that I don't like you.

it's just that I swear to god I can feel his hands on my hips while yours barely make an indent.

It's not that I don't like you.

It's just that he made confetti out of my heart and I've convinced myself I'm not worthy of the help you're willing to offer.

It's not that I don't like you, it's just that I can still taste him and nothing else seems to matter.

You cross my mind sometimes still
but you don't flood my thoughts.

I dont think about you in the
"it hurts to hear your name"
kind of way anymore

I think about you when it's late on Saturday
and you aren't laying in my bed
picking my brain

and then I think,

maybe that's a good thing.

my fingers are like matches

because everything I touch turns to ash.

I swear my intentions are golden

and my goals are pure.

but I can’t seem to keep from burning bridges

and speaking singed words.

"You're a control freak" you yell at me.

When all I am looking for is some sort of consistency

you're right though, I only like what i can't control

maybe that's why I have good grade, but maybe that is also why I stick my fingers down my throat

You're the first boy I ever told the truth to about my scar

and you planted a sweet kiss on my self hatred.

you're a hand holder and I only ever felt his hands around my neck

I felt uncomfortable when you called be beautiful with my clothes on

and that my dear is why I left.

They say that the body recreates itself every six months.

So in six months I will be clean and my skin will not remember your touch.

But until then, all I can think about is the way your lips felt on mine and how I never had an addictive personality until I met you.

How you were my nicotine and now my teeth are so ******* yellow.

And in all my attempts to rub myself raw, I lost most of myself in the process.

And now I am just held together by dry skin and ****** poetry.

I am not sure why I keep on picking roses even though I know they have thorns.

I hold onto matches too long, and kiss too many boys.

Because the truth is I can’t feel anything at all.

They say you’re most alive with a broken heart, but I was never one for irony.

I used to want to tell you everything and now I can only seem to talk about the weather.

I desperately want affection but I flinch at everyone’s attempt to get to know me.

I am scared that I will forget you, but I cut my hair so there was less of me you had touched.