Hold
On
Pain
Ends

My antidepressants don't work
the way I want them to.
I tried to imagine watching each film
with anyone but you.

Your flickering eyes,
they project the world.
Hidden reels
inside your soul.
There's too many people
inside your bones.
You don't have to be
in your theatre alone.

I forgot how to sleep
under the same ceiling.
I watch movies in the dark
to remember the feeling
that made me confide in her.
My eighties film.
My Winona Ryder.

There's too many people
inside your bones.
You don't have to
be in your theatre alone.

Five after dawn
and your movie's still on.
Christian, **** the popular kids,
because they don't understand
how her brain works,
how her glances steal,
how each death
can't make her feel.

Your flickering eyes,
they project the world.
I watch movies in the dark
to remember the feeling
that made me confide in you.
My eighties film.
My Winona Ryder,
let me forget you.

Maybe you're crazy
with your cleaner.
Maybe each swing of the mallet
made you meaner.
Maybe reality bites because of Heather.
Maybe it scared you that we were in love, together.

Maybe it scared you to stay together.
Maybe it scared you to stay together.

you taught me how to slow dance
in the streets of spain
to the music of our friends
discussing football teams
with a group of boys from ireland,
and I taught you how to read
Shakespeare out loud without
stumbling over the words.
you quoted Neruda to me
over the dishes.
you took me to plant trees
in your grandfather's back yard,
I showed you how to make
a good martini,
and we talked about our childhood fears
and recurring dreams.
(no. we didn't. we never did
any of those things -- I remember
conversations with you
that I only ever had in my head
and fell in love with you over
fictitious memories. we never danced
together or watched the stars
or had *** in the backseat of your car.
I learned to slow dance in spain
from a boy whose name I can't remember,
I quoted Neruda to myself when I was drunk
and couldn't sleep,
I made memories with other people
and photoshopped you into them
because
it should have been you.
but who writes about that, right?
who writes about the ******* truth?)

one day I will make you dinner.
the next, I will choose TV shows
               over spending time with you;
then maybe next week
               I'll write you a love song
and after I'll forget
               to return your call.
some days I'll read poetry to your voicemail --
some days I'll be an hour late for drinks.

I am a sometimes-girl.
      the kind with too many pairs of shoes
               who forgets to water her plants and
               who will love you
               several days a week -- but
               maybe not the others.
and you need to know that I know that you
deserve
something better.

I will keep you waiting;
I will frustrate you, and
I promise, I'm not worth the trouble.

still, I hope you'll stick around.