What I actually mean when I tell you that you're my world is that the earth was created just for your existence. I swear your name is etched in the hieroglyphics of the ancient pyramids, the Egyptians wiped their sweat from their brows to please you, and the Babylonians created their hanging gardens for your eyes to see. The effort of thousands of men to build the great statue of Zeus isn't in vain as long as you step foot on this ground where every atom and molecule knows that you are the purpose for their existence; and if earth was created for you then I hope it's sun was created for me, because then I'd know that I am the cause of your warmth, light, and energy. If you are the cause of the earth's existence, I pray that I'm the cause of yours.
For Ricky, again.
I used to hate the color orange,
But when we pop mandarins into our mouths between Creamsicle-sweet kisses I feel as if I’m being transported to a different dimension where we’re the only two in existence.
You’re the sunlight that hits the earth at 6pm, making everything seem as if it’s warm and glowing.
Every time I see a candle flame flicker I can’t help but think of you who exudes the same ambiance of alleviation that the walls of my childhood home once did.
If sunrise and sunset were to be combined, they still wouldn't compare to the magnetizing brilliance of your aura.
You emulate autumnal earth tones and crackling wood in brick fireplaces, echoing your heartbeat and bringing about a sense of raw intimacy shared between two.
I trace my fingertips down your spine, reflecting upon the likeness between you and the sun,
And I wonder why no one ever named a color after you.
My ears dance a minuet to the birds chirping inside of your ribcage
I get jealous knowing the sound waves get to explore your wilderness
They travel through your veins like a stream at the bed of my tongue
Like time at the end of my watchful eyes
My ears dance a minute to the birds chirping inside of your ribcage
But it feels as if you possess the power to stop father time himself from operating with nothing more than a gaze into your eye
Watches malfunction when too close to the black holes in your pupils
The vortex in your iris pulls me past your event horizon as you swallow my love
Describes the void you fill inside my heart for what seems like an eternity
My hands shake so much that every time I touch glass, it breaks and leaves blood running through the lines in my palms.
This has happened so often that my psychic tells me she's unable to tell my future because the lines in my hands are so stained that they can't be read anymore.
You see, what she's really trying to tell me is that my psyche is so damaged from lack of oxygen due to drowning in this anxiety.
So don't you dare call this femininity because it isn't very womanly to crave unconsciousness any time I'm alone.
If femininity is synonymous with being beautiful then tell me how it's beautiful to have attempted to die twenty-one times,
Or how two hospitalizations lead me out of the waters of my depression but yet still left me drowning in the ocean with anxiety.
This is not feminine and this is not beautiful, this is my mother screaming that I'm crazy and my father claiming "we're only doing this because we love you,"
This is my anxiety and I in a water-filled box that decreases in size until my head is crammed against the top and the only way I can go is down,
This is my anxiety tied like bricks to my ankles with the sole purpose of holding me under;
This is NOT womanly or feminine or beautiful.
So I beg of you, do not refer to me with metaphors about bodies of water because I don't need a reminder to let me know I'm drowning,
My ****** hands tell me enough about that.
You left me like Chernobyl
In a split second you decided you were going to combust and leave me alone with your toxic nuclear waste
You left silent playgrounds inside my ribcage, abandoned because no one wants to come back for fear of catching the radiation you left behind
If you listen quietly enough you can hear what we used to sound like
But how can you do that with all the mess
With all the books lying on the ground and every picture we've ever taken and every word that you've ever said
If you take a closer look there's a lot of pages with "I'm sorry for the mess" written in them
But sorry isn't what you say when someone has lost everything
The street signs are so damaged that I can't even find my way home anymore
Or maybe it's just because you left and I have a home anymore
They say this city is haunted but I know for certain that's not true because once you left you never came back
It's been 29 years and I'm still here buried under the rubble of this disaster caused by your radioactive fingertips
How long am I supposed to wait to become habitable again?
Every night I've wished this explosion was an earthquake so that I could have something to blame but the one thing I learned from you leaving is that there's no such thing as aftershocks in heartbreak
I keep wondering why your name exists so loudly at the bottom of the bottle,
And why I keep waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat with my hands around my throat.
My fear of drowning was replaced with the fear of you leaving, but no one ever told me what to do when my biggest fear became inevitable.
I keep scratching myself hoping that maybe it'll be your skin I find under my fingernails, because then I'll know a part of you stayed.
You left bloodstains on my pillowcase and holes in the wall and I think you chose to slice me vertically so that I'd be harder to sew up.
Now it's 2am and I'm alone in my bed trying to stop the bleeding.
Maybe these bandages could've taught you a few things,
Like how to heal the wounds you created, or maybe even how to stay.
get drunk. get really drunk. forget your name. forget where you are. forget how you got there. get so drunk that you forget her name too.
2. end up on the bathroom floor. end up in an empty bed. end up in an ambulance.
3. make sure to find pieces of her in everything. make sure it kills you inside. make sure every part of you aches when you hear her favorite song.
4. read old journal entries. read about how much you loved her. read about when she said she loved you for the very first time. read about how she left.
5. call her. hang up after hearing the first dial tone. call her again. wait for her to say, "hello?" then hang up.
6. realize that her "hello" sounded a lot like "i can't do this anymore."
7. think about how your bare bodies touched for the first time. think about how it felt like an electric shock. think about how electrocution sounds like a good idea to you now.
8. contemplate leaving. it can't be that hard since that's what she did to you.
9. write her letters. tell her how no matter how many times you wash your sheets, her smell still lingers. tell her how your new neighbor's smile looks just like hers. tell her how your heart stops beating when you hear her name. don't send them.
10. start to move on. start to forget which side of the bed was hers. start to forget the rhythm of her heart beat. see her with someone else. see her touching them the same way she touched you. collapse. repeat step 1.