sitting at the kitchen table crying, and trying to explain to my mom why i stayed while she told me, with small kaleidoscopes of warped devastation pooling in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks, that this is scaring her. because, it sounds like i’m the type of girl who stays, while her husband beats her. the girl she raised. sitting at the kitchen table crying, and realizing that when you ran your hands through my hair as you kissed me, you were twirling my future around your fingers. this is scaring me because you’ll be the guy who carved the hole in my chest that stays i know i will see your fingerprints in all the hands that will come after you.
Hello Monster, I don’t know what you look like here. But I can feel you coming back. I knew you lived in his hands Because it hurt Whenever he put them on my hips You sharpened my inhales and they cut my heart on their way to my lungs. I knew how you poisoned my name when they came out of her lips because it sounded like someone who looks better with cut wrists. she was broken anyway. I grew to know you quite well. You let go of my throat and seemed to hold my hand We were friends you and I. Maybe all it took was a change of scenery. My hair grew longer and so did your claws. And now I can’t see you until I’m already bleeding. I didn’t know how his eyes on me, would make me want to be skinny. Until you were cutting away all the parts around the edges that had grown soft since we stopped fighting. Bony is beautiful you whispered. I didn’t know you were in her back until you showed me how it bends when it turns away from me. I didn’t know you were in my knees that ache now as I chase and crave someone's lips on me in the dark. Because maybe someone will want me when they can’t see me. When they can’t see us. You’re back inside of me. I know you are. And it scares me. Because I’m starting to see you again. You look just like me.
“Have you written about me yet?” you asked. “I write about things that make me sad, you’re not one of them.” was my response.
But even as you made me sad, Even as my heart started to crumble. I never could write about you.
I am a poet I string stars into constellations And weave words into stanzas. I need someone whose eyes can be twisted into metaphors And the mere sound of their voice makes my hands tremble so gracefully That I can make my magic with a pencil.
I was in love with all the poems I wished I could write about you. How badly I wanted to sculpt you with sentences into something Too beautiful to call mine. But you are not a poem.
Yes, your eyes are quite a gorgeous blue, And your arms are strong. I’m sure you would make a beautiful painting, An inspiration for someone else’s art. But not mine.
You wanted to believe all of my broken pieces could fit in a cardboard box. That's what attics are for, to hide **** things. You're beauty was skin deep. And thats how you wanted me. I didn't want to be empty.
“Have you written about me yet?” you asked. “I write about things that have meaning, you’re not one of them.” should have been my response.
This is not my best but I have been in massive writer's block and this is kind of an explanation why.