I suppose you could find us caught
somewhere in the space between
"what was said"
"what was actually meant,"
internally debating the level of
commitment that came from
buying the other a cup of coffee
at the cafe down the street.
I dated a boy once
who asked me if I thought he
did too many drugs as he exhaled
smoke on a lazy Saturday afternoon.
I had laughed and said no,
all the while thinking
quite the opposite.
I still have yet to kiss him
when he was sober.
I once got lost in the idea that there
is no differentiation between lust,
infatuation, obsession and love,
that all were simply mirrors of
each other, or parts of an
ambiguous "bigger picture."
I took a left down the path the led
to Confusion and have yet
to find my way back to Clarity.
I have a bad habit of reading into the
actions of others, exhausting
the dictionary with a continuous
stream of questions regarding the
meaning behind the way he knew
I took two spoonfuls of sugar in my tea
or the amount of times he would blink
as I told him were the scar
on my left knee came from.
you have not flirted with death until you have made love to a boy whose skin smells like cigarette smoke and whose lips taste like *****
there was something romantic about the way he remembered my favorite brand of cigarettes even though i promised i'd quit three months ago.
I've tried for weeks now to find a poetic way to say "it still ******* hurts" and have failed every single time so instead I set fire to every love letter we wrote and burnt the tip of my finger on the flames.
Everyone's heard that saying,
the one about not making homes out of people,
but that's a hard rule to follow,
especially when its midnight and cold out and
he pulled over on the side of the highway
because he "just knew" where to find you walking alone.
Its even harder when he offers you his coat
and wraps his arms around you
and you feel safer surrounded by scarred skin
and whiskey blood than you did in the
walls of a house you've never considered home.
My mother told me once that I shouldn't
make someone my first choice if they
only made me an option. And my father
chimed in with a comment about
how I was a young, naive teenage girl who didn't know
a **** thing about love.
They may have been right about falling
for the wrong boys but its hard when
every single one of them put their foot out
and tripped you as you walked by them that
one day in April at the local library.
A homeless man once told me that I
should be careful because "the drugs
might help for awhile but the fall
will always be lower than the high"
and for the longest time I wrote that on
my arm in a marker that promised
it was permanent but would always wash off
in the shower and that's
when I realized that yes, **** is bad, but
love is a worse drug and
things that promise to stick around never do.
I once played my favorite song on repeat every night
for three months and by December I could tell you
exactly what second breaths
were taken and where the drums were loudest
and when the guitars got a little shaky
because of sweaty hands. And its February
now and that song came on the radio last weekend
and I turned it off so fast my head spun a little
bit because now instead of ceremonials
and drowning, that song makes me think
of that time I was so broken I couldn't get off the floor.
To be continued.
Mama always warned us girls
about the boys who rode motorcycles
and carried empty lighters
in the pockets of their leather jackets
but she never said anything about
the ones that drove stick-shifts
and were on a first name basis
with a man named Jack Daniels.
written January 26, 2014
it was at 3am
on a sunday
when the word
became synonymous to
and since then,
i have begun to shy away
from everyone i thought i knew
because they have all
if only i had the words to convey the ache that surrounds not only my head and my heart, but the overall soreness of memories and indispensable thought processes