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Carla Michelle Oct 2016
Two years ago I wore bunny ears and a bunny tail on Halloween at the exact same moment I texted you "Happy Birthday".
Twelve mini-cupcakes later, Two years later, I can't decide whether or not It will be a happy birth day.
Carla Michelle Oct 2016
You are a shotgun that shoots me with flowers, that stick to my skin like the wet morning air.
You are apologies left unread hidden in the mailboxes of the people I love during the humid summers of Florida.
You are a pocket knife.
You are a lighter with little gas left.
You are essential to live, if not, it would mean a life without tears rolling down my dry skin when I’m eating York Peppermint patties at 2 am thinking of you.
You are a shotgun.
You are the light of a dimly lit candle that burns me when I go to turn the flame off with my fingers in the middle of a monsoon.
You are a noose.
You are a hammer with no nail on a rainy Sunday evening.
You are a shotgun that shoots me with flowers.
Carla Michelle Oct 2016
because i know you
because i have felt you
in the shower
in the back of a cherry red
Jeep Laredo
because the last time we spoke
you confessed you ate
Peppermint York Patties
because they remind you of me
because i should have never
been to scared
to say "i'm scared"
because your laugh makes me
because i see Christmas lights
in your eyes
because i am beautiful to you
because i am always
always going to remember
*** in a motel room
*** on your cheetah comforter
*** on the leather couch
because i will never forget how i felt
like i had died
when i let you go
because your drug habits are
because my passcode is still
because i love you
too much
for myself to carry alone
because i need you to carry it
with me
because i love you
for myself.
Carla Michelle Aug 2016
I have conquered love.
I need no more the boy I once used to admire, I need no more of him.

I have accepted love.
I want no more of his touch, I want no more of his pain.

I now have a sweet, sweet boy.
I now know he is not him. I now know I can live.

A boy with eyes a hazel hurricane.
A boy with height to last for days.

A boy who wipes the tears I cry, a boy
Who I call mine.
Carla Michelle Mar 2016
Dear Mom, I hate you for pointing out my insecurities every day of my adolescent life. I used to love you before I noticed you couldn't love me the way I was. Dear middle/high school, I hate you for making me fight for my body like it was a war. Dear myself, I hate you for caring so much about things that shouldn't matter and for making me obsess over the every little calorie.

Dear Bulimia/Anorexia:
I used to love you, I used to be proud to show you off, I used to be careless about the way you made me feel. I used to come home and weight myself five time a day, I used to measure out my dimensions. I used to rationalize calories for different parts of the week, and on bad times, throughout the months. I used to eat 6 almonds every day for three months and taught myself that fainting is just like sleeping. I used to scratch my head and pull out locks of my hair. I loved you, like a heroine addict loves dope.

******* for making me so weak, ******* for showing me a normal life, and ******* for purging on it years later. You let me have my sweet taste and I've let it consume me. ******* for making me turn my mirrors around and for making me look at myself as if I was broken and needed a good fixing. ******* for taking my life and for taking my pride.

I can't possibly think of the many ways to say how I loved you. I can't think of all the ways I want to say how much I hate you. I used to blame myself for not abiding to your rules, I used to blame myself for that burger I ate last month, I used to blame myself for the weight I've gained.

Dear You, I have personified you to the point where I'm scared to tell you I don't want it anymore. You are not a disease, and you're so proud of it. You're a ******* part of me. A part I don't want to be anymore.
Carla Michelle Feb 2016
At fifteen you showed me the thrill out of life I always craved and If I wasn't such a pessimist, I would have told you I wanted to, too.
You would drive me around in your car, drifting with the winds at midnight smoke sessions.
At sixteen you stopped seeing her, and her, and her. You stared to talk about her, crying about her. You called me and you called, my god you called. I would let you drive me around, holding fingers with the smell of once faded smoke residue on your car seats.
At seventeen we went to a janky *** motel and I watched you transform into the glistening end of a lit herb. You took me to the end of a long road that was our life together, the end of a friendship. You let me drive your car while holding fingers and telling each other things. I told you what my favorite song was. You told me it could work.
At seventeen you told me I was pretty. At seventeen you took my virginity. At seventeen you announced 'i love you' on the beach at midnight.
At eighteen it was me, and you, and the world. I would drive you around in my car. I would wake up, naked, pressed against your body, clinging like it was life. At eighteen I told you I was leaving. You wanted to come. At eighteen it was me. At eighteen it was you.
At nineteen I left.
At nineteen I still don't know why I did.
At semi-twenty am I still wondering how you are and if you think of me

I wrote you as poetry. I am so sorry.
I should have written you as non-fiction.
years of my life I have with you, that I still cannot deal with.
  Jan 2016 Carla Michelle
I am glad I lived to love you.
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