it's gonna be a long time
he says, hands clutching his arms
and i want to pry his fingers
away, kiss the tips and
hide him from his fears

not forever, though
i tell him and
i hope he knows that
scars fade but we are both
talking about something bigger
so he smiles and says

*no, not
forever

you swear that you know that he
was wrong, but his hands were the
closest thing that ever felt like love,
and if he tried again, you wouldn't
tell him to stop

we've done it all, there's nowhere else to go, nothing else to do
There's my answer
i used you
But of course,
You said
just kidding*
Right after.

some days i think
you're a saint, and it's
stupid, because all
you have to do is
smile or refill my coffee
before i can even ask,

but it's more than
anyone else has done,
and if i let it slip
that i'm a little bit
in love,
i wouldn't even be
sorry.

you spoke of romance as if it were a disease.
you treated poems like pick up lines.
you said there was no point in writing anything if the writer
did not have an audience.
you asked me who my audience was,
and as soon as i answered your question,
i stopped writing.
it's easy to stop writing about someone once they begin
expecting you to.
i still think part of me was wrong, but most of me was right.
there is a point to writing beyond having
someone who will read it.
it is a desperate demanding kind of feeling
that wishes to remain
anonymous.

you cant exactly see my
scars.
theyre thin white lines
across my wrist.
barely even visible.
but, the tanner i become
the more visible they
are.

they are the stories of my
desperation.
the lies i listened to.
the thoughts inside of
my head.
the fear
the hate
the love
they are my heart
ripped open over and
over again till more and
more blood pours.

these thin white lines
are me even when i
dont want them to be.

i wish i could give him
a close up.