I know you never lied. I could see through your eyes into the honesty of your words, although you didn't mean to let yourself speak them. You gasped and made the mistake of voicing your pain. I'm sorry I broke your heart, but in the end, it was only fair.

I loved you just as much.

This doesn’t belong, this is awkward. This is baggy and this is new,

But this fits. It’s cozy and close. It’s comfortable, like an old sweater in the back of a drawer of people you used to be. It’s a combination of them all, their best characteristics and worst traits. Her smile, the habit of another. The mixture is new, unrecognizable and mysterious, but comfort is in all. It takes a moment to understand, and even then, it is a thing of unmentionable beauty. Something worth looking at, you carry it like a textbook, ashamed and under your arm. You hope no one will notice, but it’s light burns through your insecurities. It has it’s own pride.

There’s a girl in none of my classes that walks the halls, wishing only that she could be sitting in my desk, reading my words and hearing the words that will get her where she should already be. She’s got such a reputation, that girl. She says things people want to hear without regret. She sleeps with the crowds, and doesn't ramble on. She’s to the point, this girl. She is clean in her sin, and respectable in crime. Sometimes as she passes my door, just for a moment, I see in her a misplaced pride. A smirk that she put there, for people like me. The kind of girl she wants to be.

You are a hopeless romantic, an unforgivable wreck. An unfortunate bohemian are you. Forgetting how to maintain a smile in the simplest of times, you doth protest too much. You are young, you know nothing. You are young, you are afraid. You have the rest of your life to stay where you are, never moving forward but never truly experiencing standing still. You are wicked. You are prepared. You are eager, you are ready. You, with thoughts like art and hopes like wildfires.

Standing here in a crowded doorway, waiting for the signal to rush off, be somewhere new and make the choice. Where do I go now? Before my escape, she passes with her sparkling new faces. They smile at her, laugh with her and think she’s just the coolest thing since sliced bread. I watch her travel on, but her smirk is gone. Instead, a perfectly-placed pout over... Who knows? But I can see that this time, it’s real, although she’s even more ashamed of it than the smile she hid before. This pout, she herself doesn’t understand. She thought she was happy.

this is my frustration.
this is my breaking point.
this is my breakthrough.
this is my fidelity.
this is my pride.
this is my comfort.
this is my most awkward part of my day.
this is where my knees start to shake and my shoulders tense under your fingertips.
this is where my mind wanders too far, but not far enough.
this is where your flesh isn't enough.
this is the spot on the stairs where you kissed me.
this is the spot on the stairs where you forgot to kiss me.
this is where you lay your head.
this is where you wish you could lay your head.
these are the lips that want to love you.
these are the lips that lied to love you.

I had no intention of causing any more harm than she had done to herself, which became the catalyst for a series of letters. Pages upon pages of observations, one more prominent than the others; You wish you knew me like I wish you knew yourself.
I became under the impression she received the message, neither of us were fit to infatuate with the other. However, she still met me that afternoon in the park. She still approached me in her most vulnerable character.
Hi, i’m J-
I know who you are. I always have. I know you biblically and genetically alike. I know your mother’s maiden name, and the reason for your scar. What I don’t understand is, why me?

Quiet response, scared. Vulnerable. Scarred.

*I wish I knew myself like you know me.

I am tentatively, yet surely looking forward to hating you for what you have made me become. I may not have seen it before, but without a doubt I am now in your trap and terribly regretful for loving my way into this mess. Congratulations, but this is nothing you should be proud of. I’m beginning to grow tired of helping you realize how you’ve hurt me, and yet it’s the pain that you’ve put me through that you’re so attracted to. The scars now appearing on the inside mean nothing now that the exterior has its little flaws. You are only proud of the scars you varnish me with.