And
just

the whole time you
were talking I was
watching your hands
and thinking about
how I'm going to
miss the way your
fingers drum on
your knees and
always make their
way over to me and
start a beat on every
surface of my skin.

I can't do this.

Eyes locked for dragging seconds
You opened your mouth
And closed it
And opened it once more
Nothing but deafening waves of silence
Escaped your lips
The air became heavy and saturated
With words you wanted to say
But didn't

Two breaths, you took
Each in synchronism
With my subtle gasp of anticipation
Never did I dare
To question your hesitance
Because I, too
Fostered mangled words
On the tip of my tongue
That I could not string together
For the life of me

Starve* your ego, wake your pride
Marry death's eternal bride
Wear the ring upon your head

Tighter still it turns you red
Fury fury build your bond
Mold the eyes you rest upon

Take a day or two or three
More than this will set you free
If the blood inside your hands

Bares itself in lonely strands
You have buried nothing then
That is what it means to end

Over, under, up from there
Feet have traveled everywhere
Worn and famished state of mind

Looking for a vital sign
Wrap around the map you made
Circle back, forever fade

i inherited an entire library
full of books that offer explanations
as to why you are incapable of loving me.

the romance section was laughable,
giving me bullet point commentaries
as to why i am doomed to never
be loved or feel loved again,
reasons why i settle for beautiful boys who
enjoy my company because i'm quirky, cute, time killer material,
not anchored, solid, strong, soulmate material.
but that's just it, i guess, no one can deny it-
(everyone knows when they are in the presence of precariousness.)

the mystery section offered me nothing but
a full buffet  of questions i already had,
questions that always seemed to give clues to future answers,
delicious questions that tasted sweet at first
then turned suddenly sour,
questions that made me understand the meaning
of a deceptive cadence.
(these books made me wish i didn't leave fingerprints
on everything i touch.)

the fiction section made me feel like a child again,
these were the books that reminded me why hope
is and has always been my favourite bedtime snack.
(these were the books that reminded me that just
because i couldn't make you love me did not mean
that i couldn't make believe you love me.)
since i've stepped out of my fins every step has made me wish
for the courage to throw myself into the sea,
to dissolve in an instant,
to be a daughter of the air forevermore.
(perhaps Hans Christian Anderson was the only person in the world
who knew just how much it hurts to be a human being.)

the self help section gave the illusion of answers,
the way a fortune teller with a foreign accent
doused in flattery and jewelry might seem.
i have spent hours of my existence with these books,
laying on my stomach, furrowed brow, fingers turning white
from clutching the ballpoint pen for dear life thinking
maybe if i just keep
underliningunderliningunderlining
things will start to make sense again.
(because, don't you know? the more you underline
the parts of your life that are relevant on paper,
the closer you are to having figured out your life so perfectly
you eventually will walk by these books wondering
which unfortunate person you should donate them to.)

i inherited an entire library
full of books that offer explanations
as to why you are incapable of loving me.
i think maybe there are some things
that we are never meant
to know.