I want you to look
at me.
More than a glance.
Less than a stare.
Look at me.
Look within me.
Look into my eyes
and tell me.
Tell me I wasn't a game.
Tell me I wasn't a joke.
Tell me I wasn't a challenge.
Tell me I was more than another girl.
Tell me you truly had feelings for me
and I wasn't your **** Barbie doll.
Look me in the eyes
and tell me why
you can't stand to be near me.

Why do people
look at me
cross-eyed
when I turn up to volume
as Alice in Chains,
Nirvana,
Black Sabbath,
Guns N' Roses,
and all my rock music
pulse through the speakers
of my Jeep?
Is it that unexpected?
Because it surprises me most when you
have that puzzled look on your face.

I feel
mesmerized
by those
blonde whiskers on your chin.
They make you look older,
sexier.
I wonder if
you're just too lazy to shave
or haven't gotten chance to get around to it.

My reflection shows in the mirror and
my rib cage protrudes from my skin
my hip bones jut out.
My hands run over my skin before I pull
a shirt over my head and pants up my legs.
You used to purposely freak me out.
You would **** in and skin would almost dissolve under your bottom rib.
You wanted me to stick my hand under your ribs, pressing into the dissolved skin.
That's the only part that freaked me out, pressing under your rib cage.
I didn't care that you could **** in and have your ribs show one by one.
I didn't care that you had me feel the dip in your sternum.
You used to pull your sweatpants down your thighs when you sat down.
There would be a skinny slot that the shorts you wore underneath and your boxers would leave because they hung onto your bulging hipbones.
I was to get over you.
I didn't fall for you until you showed your interest in me.
Finally, I began to like you in a way I never planned.
I was to get over you
that was the plan.
But you still have my head spinning
thinking I was stupid enough to fall again
and
here I am,
writing you a poem,
because hard work to keep myself in shape
even reminds me of you.
I guess I'm able to say life was about living for the night when I was with you
because talking to you alone got my mind off things and allowed me to have fun.

Eyelids grow heavy
from little energy and the need for sleep.
Glasses slide up my nose, pressing the nose piece into my skin, leaving indentations.
My finger twitches
as it holds my place in my current horror story that hangs off the edge of bed.
Cool air from the fan puffs out the entrance of my pillow case and makes the tied ends of my blanket flutter.
My eyes struggle to stay open, even though the ceiling light remains on.
Will someone find me passed out?
Mark my place with a bookmark and remove my glasses before shutting the light off, kissing my forehead a goodnight and shutting off the light while easing the door shut behind them?