Depois do nosso lance, não quero mais amar ninguém.
Não por ter sido bom, mas por ter sido péssimo.

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After our affair, I don't want to love anyone else.
Not because ours was good, but because it was excruciating.

You can unwind years’ worth of therapy
and medication with a single sentence.

I don’t want flowers; they do nothing

but blacken and deteriorate and remind me

of my insides and everything they lack.

I want support, comfort, reconciliation,

and false reassurance that will

make me believe (even for a second)

that I’m not actually deranged,

unstable, and hopeless.

Lie to me. Tell me I’m sane, tell me

I’m worth it, and tell me I can bounce back

from this mood I seem to have been

stuck in since the beginning of my time.

Make me feel like the weight of the world

might be less heavy when you’re near

because you might want to carry

some of it with me.

I.
If friendships make better relationships, we would have been the best. But care can’t be unbalanced. That being said, I don’t think about you anymore, and that is probably my greatest victory.

II.
I frequently messed up work because you were set in front of me. It wasn’t my fault I had something more engaging to think about. I didn’t mind being called out except that it might’ve lowered your thoughts of me. If that hadn’t done it, I had to do it myself because I ruin every good thing.

III.
To every sweet and sour pair of lips I’ve kissed, thank you for leading me to find my current pair.

IV.
Retreat.

The looks you give me are almost
as disturbing as hearing the pills
I swallow dancing down the back
of my throat. I know they’re supposed
to help, but I feel implacable.

I am made up of lightning storms and dry tear ducts fighting through your sweaty palms and storm drains.

My hand rails can’t support your heavy words and even graver thoughts.

I was just trying to get the sad out of my veins.