Right man at a wrong time.

Whoever told you
That we weren't
All in this Together


Lied.

I hate dreaming about you,
when I wake up my whole body aches
from being tricked into thinking
I was really touching you,
that you were really there
and you really did want me.
I don’t like waking up whenever
I dream about you because
when I turn over to the
other side of my bed
to that empty space
I’m just reminded that
you still aren't here with me
and I’m still lost without you.

You once asked me "Why do you love him?"

His eyes are full light. The way he looks at me after I make a joke is enough to make me dance in my room on a Monday morning.
His arms are strong and comforting. I cried in his arms when I told him that my father's love was late, and there in his arms I found the strength to move on.
His voice is soft and peaceful. 3am was always beautiful with his words singing in my ear.
He has a scar right above his right eye. It's a beautiful flaw.
The way he laughs oh my God I think the angels sing in chorus.
He drinks coffee. Our love is stable due to empty coffee cups.
He's addicting like a cigarette except he'd never cause me any pain.
He once split a sandwich with me and he gave me the bigger half.
He's perfect for me.

"He's different."

I couldn't ever tell you all of this because then you might fall in love with him too.

You said you loved me but I don't think you know what that means

What kind of love would leave me on the ground in your tshirt with teary eyes?
What kind of love would listen to twenty seven (literally twenty seven) voicemails of me crying and begging you to reply and not respond to a single one?
What kind of love would kiss me today and leave me tomorrow?
What kind of love would listen to my past without the intention of being in future?
What kind of love would just let go?

You said forever but I don't think you know what that means

There's a difference between looking and
seeing.

You can look at me,
but I wonder more
what you see.

Brown eyes,
brown hair,
barely more than
five feet tall;
my feet are small,
as are my hands;
my teeth are straight,
thanks to braces;
shoulders been broad
since I swam,
but my figure
is much less athletic
than it used to be.

I could look
at myself
and point out
a million flaws.
My forehead is much
too big for my liking,
my cheeks are too red,
my top lip is so
skinny it barely
exists,
and, if you ask me,
my waist line
could afford
to look a little more
like my upper lip.

My looks are far from perfect.
Not saying I'm hideous,
but I don't look
in the mirror
to find
America's Next Top Model,
or anything close,
at least not until
my face is perfectly painted,
flaws concealed under
a combination
of moderately priced makeup and
a rather crafty hand.

When I look,
physical imperfections
and inadequacies
stare back at me.
My overly expressive
light brown eyes
give me an
omnipotent glance,
and they beg me to
turn away,
to close them,
to put them to sleep
so that I can
see.

When I see,
it's like a whole new me.
I'm a human being
whose physical flaws
are diminished by
an overly giving, compassionate
heart,
a brain
filled of logic & curiosity,
a chest
swollen full of
endless giggles,
a throat
storing sarcastic words mixed in with
empathetic phrases;
down within me
I see
the woman
who still at times
looks and feels
more like the girl
whose heart has been broken
too many times to count
but still, despite her
womanly pessimism,
yearns optimistically
to love again.
Within me I see
a woman with confidence
and also insecurity,
ambition and fear,
tranquility and rage,
hope and despair;
I see dreams,
wishes,
prayers,
meditation;
I see a beautifully
complex soul
trapped in a world
that begs it for
simplicity and
conformity.

I guess when I look
I only get a glimpse
of the body
that feels the need
to be perfect,
to work out a little more,
to weigh a little less,
to fix her hair the right way,
and to dress in the right clothes.
The self-conscious me
who still fears being weird,
who cares what others think,
who worries if my parents are proud.

But when I see,
out comes the woman
who says
**** the status quo,
I can't be put in a box,
I'm beautiful the way I am,
and nothing stands
between
me
and achieving
my
dreams.

When I look,
I don't see,
but when I see,
I see me.

I feel the brim of my glasses graze my nose,
and I know,
even once I take 'em off,
my vision
is better
than ever.

I loved you once.....I think,
when the stars were ours 
and the wild in me yearned for the calm in you.

I was naivety looking for movie love amongst preened egos.
Searching, desperate to believe the
"you complete me" ******* consumed by numbed masses.

I stood in white silk at Gods altar,
Satan played the march with pride
as the choir abandoned all hope of hallelujah's.
While others dried tears in cheap motel rooms.

We exist now only in other realms
and never for eachother.
Mine a fortress of  bitter ink and paper
white as the inner thighs of the strangers you seek.
Yours an alcohol daze.

I like it that way, apathy mine to keep, distant guilt yours to cherish.
Wedded bliss staged and scripted,
sweet love squandered.

We wear our masks so well