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 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.
i was never obsessed with hands until i held hers
TELL ME WHEN IS THE LAST TIME SOMEONE TOLD YOU THEY LOVED YOU AND MEANT IT AND TELL ME IF YOU FELT THE SAME BECAUSE HONESTLY I CANT REMEMBER WHEN SOMEONE TOLD ME AND IM STARTING TO FORGET WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE WANTED AND IM LEARNING WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE AFRAID THAT THIS WILL BE FOREVER
THERE'S BLOOD ON MY HANDS AND I DON'T KNOW IF ITS YOURS OR MINE BUT THE PAIN IN MY CHEST MAKES ME FEEL LIKE IT'S THE LATTER. OR MAYBE THAT'S JUST FROM WHEN YOU LEFT ME. I'M NOT REALLY SURE BECAUSE STAB WOUNDS AND HEARTACHE ARE STARTING TO FEEL THE SAME TO ME NOW.
I woke up on the cold bathroom floor because I swore I heard your voice.
It turns out that whiskey sounds a lot like you.
No matter how much I drink,
It's you that always leaves me feeling empty.
If you asked me to define home, I'd picture her.
I wouldn't think about my leather couch, but her brown eyes that fill up the room more than any piece of old furniture ever could.
It is not the drapes I played Hide-N-Seek in as a child, because her hair is so much better to get lost in.
My home is not my first house that seemed like a labyrinth to my tiny fingertips, because her mind has far more hidden rooms to discover.
My house has chipped paint on the walls, but my home.. she is covered perfectly.
If you could substitute a photograph for a dictionary definition, it would be her silhouette beside the word "home."
But you see, the problem with home is that you never realize its importance until you can't have it anymore.
Her heartbeat no longer sounds like my mother making breakfast in the kitchen on a Sunday morning, it's the one creaky step I used to skip over because of its gut wrenching noise.
I can't stop thinking about her. I have nowhere to run to, because her arms aren't wide open anymore, they're closed and locked like my bedroom door. I'm homesick.
the wailing sirens will always scream her name louder than you ever could
It's not a drug problem,
abandoning is a whole different kind of addiction.
tainted with dreams of your long hair and **** silhouette
you and her intertwined, forming a figure eight of lust
you were my spine,
now I can't sit up straight.
I want to describe how love feels at 3am with your arms around my waist in the kitchen
And how it felt felt when jumping in the lake wearing only my own skin.
I want to live and feel something other than the inflation of my own lungs that force me to breathe.
I want to dance with you to jazz music while we wear only our underwear at 2am.
I want our bodies to know each other so well that our hearts start to beat in unison.
I crave to hear the fluent Spanish flow off your lips when I make you feel something that English can not express.
I want to call you mine before bed when you finally let your hair drape down past your shoulders, and when you make your first cup of coffee in the morning.
It's 5 in the morning and I can't stop thinking about her loving you the way that I should be.
The same day I learned I loved you
I also learned to say
"Your eyes are like stars"
I'm not sure if I believe in fate but
This is not a coincidence
I want to outline your body in red paint and turn it from a crime scene to a cathedral
If looks could ****,
I'd be a villain
Your hair drapes down your spine in church spires.
As your fingernails bloom lilacs I realize that I am a to-do list and you are a painting.
I was always one for structure,
Like 12 point font, Times New Roman,
And closets organized by color.
Until you appeared.
You were Comic Sans,
And messy rooms.
You wreaked havoc on my walls,
And dripped your ****** paint down my veneer sink.
You lacked structure and turned me to ruined flesh.
It's been four years since,
And I am still trying to pick up the shards of glass off the bathroom floor.
At eight years old I lived in a house with rickety floors
The wood was wearing thin and the foundation was visible through the cracks,
But other than my frilly pink dress,
I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
Eight years later the floors remind me of you.
Your skin is cracking your foundation is crumbling,
And your patience is as thin as the walls,
But I still think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen
— The End —