i wish i had never left
it wouldn’t make a difference
if i was there or if i never came
in the first place, a testament
to the latent fact that i am never
anywhere or anyone anyways

and when i left i met you
and i hate myself for it
because until then i was fine
it was all fine and it was okay

and now i’m thirteen again
whenever i look at the instagram
screenshot, i took it because
i was zooming into your eyes
too much and my fingers got
tired and i decided to **** it

you’ve got me writing in verse
you’ve made me published again
i hate you for it

i want to be yours
of course i do
but i don’t just want that
i usually would, but i
just want you to be loved
hell it doesn’t even have to
be me it certainly shouldn’t be

i never looked at the sky
before for answers, i think
that ****’s pretty dumb but
i’m also pretty dumb
and you’re just pretty

if you would let me
i would watch you forever
i would listen for hours
i’d follow you to hades
or long island where
you say it’s really sick
or the ******* palisades
or anywhere else but here
and if you told me to
drive off a bridge i would
because it’s picturesque
and you’re always right

and it’s not healthy
but i never claimed to be

i can’t stop seeing what i want
in my head, a movie of us
surrounded by a green border
i’ve gone way too far into it

and look at this **** i’m
writing rupi kaur 2012
poetry so i guess she had
a point about the books
and the flowers or whatever

something about flowers is
i thought they were so stupid
like puppies and glitter
but now whenever i see
beautiful plants and
old books i think of you
and it’s sickening

a friend told me you
love somebody else and
it should have been
relieving to me but then
i just started to break
because somethings wrong
with me and i can’t just let
the simple **** go
i have to be dramatic
i have to be the worst
person in the world
for some ******* reason

i think you don’t understand
that when i look at you i
don’t see the things you see
because you’re beautiful
and i ******* hate you for it

i don’t cry, i can’t really
because being vulnerable
is stupid and immature
but every other day i cry
and i cry for you
and it isn’t fair i know
but i can’t help it anymore

and i thought maybe it
was another charade because
i was bored and i wanted a game
but then you revealed more of
yourself to me and at some
point i couldn’t deny that
whatever you made me feel
wasn’t fleeting it was forever
and it’s still ******* here

i used to take risks
and gambles and then i realized
that they hurt beneath the skin
and now i’m doing it again
i’m screaming and clawing
at the edge of the world

it’s two in the morning and
i’m literally writing this out of
order and i’m not mentioning
what i should because if i do
it will make it real and it
will make me so utterly
depraved and disgusting

i can write so many things
for you and all for you
and usually i could anyways
but i can write books
i can write anthologies
plays and manuscripts
things they put in chapels

if you see me don’t say anything
you can laugh and swear and
cuss me out and then you can
leave me and i know you won’t
because you’re so nice
(and yes, i hate you for it)
but you really should
before i destroy us and
this thing we’ve created

i like you too
and i ******* hate you for it.