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I wish
I could hold you heart in both of my hands
And be allowed the opportunity
To toy with it all I want

And then maybe
You could feel what you are doing to me
And you could stop devastating
Every aspect of me.
i
hold
grudges
like
my
mother
&
leave
first
like
my
father.
speaking of my father feels foreign to me.
his mother tried to **** him
when he was in her belly
so he tried to **** her
on his way out and
they
never
spoke
about
it
why do i think about this so much? i guess i just had to write it down.
you spent the entirety of your childhood
on the cement driveway
laid out in the front of the
tall house on the right side
of almond street
r i p p i n g
the wings off of your favorite insects
after letting them explore
the skin stretched across your hands
and keeping them in mason jars
on the middle shelf above your bed
admiring the trust they had in you

many years later
you move it up to the bedroom
cotton instead of cement
but i could never tell the difference
with your hands gripped tight
around each and every one of my limbs
and after i could no longer hold your attention
you'd throw me in the closet
with the rest of the skeletons
and now you get to watch me
become one
because we went from
crossed stars and smoking in back yards
to you regretting all of it
somehow
between facebook posts
and blankets tied around my neck
drunkenly running through the house
i keep finding myself
playing the heroine
to your hero.
i like to tell myself that
it will only hurt worse if i
c
r
y
but i can't help it
on the quiet nights
and thinking about you,
i could do it
all the time.
i don't like to make excuses,
i just miss having your hand in mine
so i'll bury myself in blankets
or put on the biggest sweater i can find
but i still feel empty and
n   a   k   e   d
reminding myself that
everything
will be
fine.
won't it?
i know i've said that it hurts most at night,
and screaming into your pillow at 2am
is the romantic, glorified equivalent
of constantly feeling
cheated
emotionally bruised
and too far away from him,

but sometimes,
it’s 10am on a monday morning
and you’re leaning on the kitchen sink
waiting for the toast to pop up
and the smell of dusty sunlight and
chamomile tea makes you
miss. him. so. much.
that you don’t know what to do
with your hands.
today, i closed his bus tickets in the front page of a composition book filled with every poem i've ever written about him, and i'm planning on sending it tomorrow. i couldn't stop smiling and the thought of him opening it. this is what it is to be in a long distance relationship. you experience almost all of it by yourself, despite your happiness. the little things mean so much more. i have never tasted anything more bittersweet.
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