i'm trying to make memories with people who won't **** me but you're still there, and maybe you're always going to be there, and some memories do not heal for they are too powerful to drown in the ruin of myself and your poison is still lurking in my throat. nothing terrifies the marrow in my bones more than knowing that you are the pain in the back of my mind, and it has been six months since you left me dead, six months since my poems were all written on the moon instead of dreaming of the stars, six months since you slurred that you swallowed tablets to detox me from you, six months. you. you are your smirk, you are your dumb pick up lines, you are your flirtatious text messages despite the lack of a relationship we hold, you are your stupid ******* rocker jeans and the way your eyes used to glint in the navy shade of 4am, smoke curled along the edge of your lip, your hand reaching for the belt loop of my jeans. nimble fingers hold guitar picks and make music as opposed to love and there was no love there at all, just the idea of it embedded in your teeth and in my hands in your hair and the smell of art and lust and strawberry chapstick and the wreckage of my being up in flames.
is my blood still lingering on the cracks of your lips? have i stained you?
tw: other people's pain becoming your own