I’ve gotten use to broken promises
from the girls who used to pass notes  with me in fourth period geometry
when the teacher wasn’t looking. The crumbled up pieces of notebook paper
coated in scribbled words disguising the secret nicknames
we gave to the guys we didn’t want anyone else to know about still lay scattered
throughout random, dust covered boxes

in my bedroom. I’ve gotten used to the whispers
from those in passing who claimed to only wanted the best for me
as long as that meant proofreading their papers and being available whenever they needed something. Holding their hair back from the after effects of the bonfire Saturday night
knowing they wouldn’t even remember

I was there come the morning light.
I’ve gotten used to being second
compared to those who have more. The red ribbons
and second place certificates coat the walls of my house
serving as a constant reminder to push harder
but know there’ll always someone else

better. I’ve gotten used to lustful words from the boys who claim to love me
as long as my leggings and white t-shirt are lying on the floor
of their bedroom come Friday night.
The radio always seeming to play

the same song which you sang to me that first day.
You reminded me that I was more than whispers in the silence,
broken promises,
and love shown through violence.

I drive past the road leading to your house
signing the same song about how I’m doing just fine
but this empty bed is something I’ll never get used to.
It lacks the warmth of your body filling the vacant spots
mine weren’t touching. It’s missing your extra pillows
that used to speckle the sheets like raindrops
on the pavement outside.
I’ve gotten used to the winds
and the sky not always being blue, but I could never get use to
how I lost you.

Sometimes I wake up in a different room, lying barely covered
in a strange bed with an unfamiliar scent coating the oversized t-shirt blanketing my upper body.
The alarm clock across the room blinked
what I decided was an inaccurate time
based off the amount of sunlight peeking out from behind the corner of the sheet
taped to the top of the window seal in a poor attempt to keep the room in shadows.
The unknown room around me was messy but provided no comfort
like the clothes speckled floor of your apartment once did. Some mornings
I can’t even remember the name of the new, handsome man making breakfast
because you’ve infected my thoughts and clouded my mind
making it so I can’t leave you behind.
The smell of French toast circles through the air above me.
I hated the taste

but only you knew that. I managed to crawl out of that mysterious pile of sheets
and walk to stare in the cracked mirror.
Dazed and unaware of what happened the night before,
I realized I don’t even recognize who I am anymore.

The headlights from passing cars on the not so distant highway let off just enough glow
for me to see the rings float away from your lips and fill the car
I would have to air out later before my parents discovered I didn’t actually go to Denny’s
for the late-night pancake special. I didn’t care
that I would have to stay up once I got home to wash my clothes because you had never looked as ****
as you did in that moment. I was staring at the tattoo
peeking out from underneath the sleeve of your favorite grey shirt when you started to laugh.
         What, I whispered
anxious about the sudden interruption of silence.
           You’re so high, escaped your lips
in-between another hit. I joined in your laughter.
What you said was true,
but it wasn’t off of THC
        it was off of you.

The snow outside my small window had just started to fall again
coating the frozen grass with a fresh white blanket that only encouraged me to stay snuggled up in my bed
under layers of fuzzy fabric. The sounds outside that condensation covered window
started to fade as my alarm clock ticked to another early hour of the morning.
        I should be sleeping
but instead I'm trying to study notecards for my anatomy exam in-between checking my phone
hoping you responded to that message
I sent a thirty seconds ago.
            One minute,
      two,
                   four
minutes later I’m struggling to remember where a protein is made
because I can’t drag my eyes away from the same, black screen that’s been staring back at me
since I sent that message five and a half minutes ago.
I give up on memorizing the functions of an organelle and turn out my light
trying not to focus in on how your hair would look
with little white flakes speckling it.
            Eight minutes
after I was picturing the outline of your face, imagining the perfection in every curve and line
I’m comforted by the faint scent of cigarettes on your skin and your hands grabbing my hips
as your body pushes against mine. I forget all about the snow
coming in through the opened window beside where we were
whispering back and forth in the dark room only illuminated by a random car passing by the building.
Breathing in deeply attempting to flood my brain with what I was feeling,
kissing the nicotine seeping up through your skin, praying it circulates through my blood
      and holds me over until the next time the snow comes down
and you blanket me like the white powder covering the frozen ground outside.

I woke up in yet another mess of bed sheets
with your bare chest up against my back
and my legs tangled up with yours underneath those flannel sheets
that haven’t been washed in weeks. The candle beside the bed still flickering
from the night before.
You loosened your grip as I crawled from that queen size bed
searching for that baby blue blouse that I dropped onto the floor
last night after we were done talking in circles.
I slid into it in a lame attempt to hide the not so invisible ink of our past
that speckled my upper body like freckles across my face
after a hot, summer's day.
Steam filled the small apartment,
leaking out of the bathroom door after you managed to roll out of bed
and into the shower. As the hot water hit the bottom of the tub
we spent hours in over the past year laughing until our fingers turned pruney,
I striped the bed
getting rid of the *****, wax stained sheets we used to sleep in
with the hopes of this time leaving behind the people we once were.

Free spirited, opened minded, and an adrenaline ******,
you never took no for an answer,
always suggesting
something outrageous to outdo the time before.
You encouraged me to push the envelope
when I begged you to play it safe.
I was sipping my second Shirley Temple when you swallowed
the last mouthful of your twelfth glass Busch.
You spent the night mumbling snide remarks
about the shirt I was wearing to your friends
across the table while I sat there biting my tongue remembering
I still had ink healing from our last "adventure"
a few weeks ago.
Leaving hours later, I helped you
stumble into your apartment and land on the bed.
I slipped out of my blouse and walked
away trying to ignore your comments while my throat burned.
I couldn’t take the accusations.
      I hated getting to this point,
yelling at each other from across the room until the sun peaked through
the pane of that little kitchen window.
Talking in circles even though we knew
neither of us were going to win.
This time, I assumed would be like any other, ending in
the innocent, small town girl getting sick
from the constant the back and forth
          but you got up.
Walking in my direction, lighting
candles as you went,
creasing my face and pulling me in
you whispered in the voice I hadn’t heard since that first I love you:
I’d rather fight with you than make love with anyone else
    and at the end of the day
I realized that was all that mattered.

I was an oblivious eighteen year old
obsessed with flower crowns and chocolate chip cookie dough
drinking to remember while others drank to forget.
I was ready for change and embraced anything that didn’t resemble
small towns, closed spaces, and my comfort zone.
You were a taste of spontaneity, caramel candy drops, and daisies
in a never ending field of possibilities. Five minutes with you
soon brought me more excitement than friendship bracelets and SpongeBob shaped mac and cheese.
You were everything
but predictable. That first night alone,
candles burning all around us,
       you touched me
without using your hands. I’d never felt anything
like the invisible ink you used to write all over me,
covering every crease and crevice without even trying.
Being a naïve, ******* girl I fell
for what I thought would forever be my favorite one night stand
that instead turned into almost every night as the hot summer air turned to chilly afternoons
with colorful leaves falling around us.
Looking up at the stars I thought I’d never have to be alone in the darkness again until
the invisible ink started to transform
into bruises from too much Bacardi and scars
from the flames you used to light those candles
the night you first said I love you.
I’ll never be able to forget the soft sound of your breathing
as I lied there
          uncovered,
     unsure
of what those nights meant
to me, to you
for us.