I loved this boy

with long hair the

color of chestnuts

or, black coffee

my eyes are bad

so, I can’t really be sure

I loved this boy

I still do

maybe just a little bit

but, enough that it hurts

And, sometimes, I can’t sleep

because of all the horrible

things that I have said to him

how many times we made

each other cry

I wrote the boys

name in the snow

before stomping on it

because, in all honesty

that was an easier thing to do

than profess my love to him

Now, this was not in love

nor was this puppy love

it was more than a friendship

more than a sibling

This boy, he stole my heart

and ground it in to

a fine, red powder

under his worn out sneakers

If someone were to

look closely,

not that anyone would want to see

me shirtless, there is a little invisible scar

where his name used to be

resting over my heart

This boy, I remember that,

one time, he let me run my fingers

through his hair,

and I almost cried because his

eye lashes were so soft where they fluttered against my fingers

This boy, now a young man

I sometimes watched him

instead of eating my lunch

I often noted the way that his

spine and every little marble that made it up

along with the flesh and bone

could be seen through his shirt

I longed to run my fingers

up and down that thin line

and tell him how beautiful I thought he was

how much I loved him

I want to demand he take back

all the horrible things

that we said to each other

and force me to say sorry

Because, my god, do I miss him

and the horrible nick names I gave him

since, sometimes, saying his name

was too painful

The horrible cards and pictures I made him

out of the few that I found in the trash

he told me that he kept even more

I blushed like an idiot

Since, when I knew this boy

it was before I had taught myself

not to cry in front of people

because, to show any emotion

is a clear sign of weakness

Which is what I am

I am weak

as are my knees

with love for this boy

Who can’t even say my name

let alone look at me

with disgust in his beautiful eyes

though I can’t remember the color

and a curl in his mouth

that was usually only reserved for himself

I’ve managed to, at least partially, convince myself that what we had was all *******.

That she didn’t mean any of the things that she said.

That I was just a convenient little something to show off until she moved on to the next flavor.

Just something to manipulate and play with.

I was warm clay under her scarred and burned hands.

She made me into pretty shapes to satisfy her mood swings.

I was putty to her.

Just a mass of scars and good intentions turned sour by the cruel hands of time.

She never loved me.

She used me.

And, I enjoyed every minute of it.

I loved it.

To be touched.

To be told such sweet things.

I tell myself that it was all *******, every single ******* second of it, because, pretending that it was all fake, is easier than admitting that I am too damaged for anyone to love.

For anyone to fall in love with.

I am no longer damaged goods.

I am just damaged.

When wrote about you, I found my soul.
But I don’t know how to make it go away.

I have a problem with going to funerals.

But, with the way that I dress, the way that I act, you would think that I would be fine hanging out with a dead family member, right?

Yeah, no.

I hate funerals.

And, it’s not because I’m an insensitive *******.

You’ve all witness my breakdowns.

I eat the food afterwards.

Listen to people pray to a god that I don’t believe in.

Listen to people talk about a heaven that I don’t believe in, and wouldn’t get into, anyway, even if I did.

I drink the watery coffee.

I listen to my family talk about how proud they were with themselves because they didn’t cry, and feel weak and broken, ****** up, flawed, for sobbing so hard that my shoulders shook.

I look at the person in the coffin.

But I don’t see them.

I have a problem with funerals in general.

I tend to stand there, useless.

Though I have been known to give hugs to people when they are about to cry.

My problem, though, is not that I am afraid of death.

I am afraid of living, and being alone, more than anything.

My problem is that I have the strongest urge to run up to the coffin, and shake the person laying there, yell at them to wake up.

To just wake up.

To please just wake up.

Because they promised that they wouldn’t leave me.

But, everybody leaves.

Everybody leaves.

Fill a bathtub

with my sorrow

so sweet

so cold

so sharp

so

I can drown

myself in it

Now

Don’t you worry

your pretty little head,

my love

Safe is my middle name

On every day that

doesn’t end

in

Y

I was drinking tea.

Or, trying to.

The key word is trying.

I kept on choking,

and coughing,

and gagging.

Now my throat hurts.

Almost as much as it did

when I decided to strangle myself.