I'll never forget the way he smelled at the park that first day in his flannel shirt with the water dripping from his hair. While he pushed me on the swings, a cigarette in his lips and the rain falling off of him and onto my face, he tip top tapered across my rib cage and into my veins. His fingers felt like they did the same most quiet nights.
You tended to the forest in my chest and now you're gone and the roots are overgrown, and the leaves are making their way up to my mouth and I can taste them when I breathe your name late at night. It hurts. Now come back and finish what you've done to my insides.
I think maybe I loved you a little bit. I knew it then but never told you. That's okay, though, because I think you loved me a little bit, too, and never told me, either.
You will always be the reason I don't think I'm good enough but I know I'm better than I was four years ago. And I think I'll spend the rest of my life trying to prove to you I'm bigger than how you made me feel.
If you have to be what you eat I'll just have those dandelions that float away when you blow on them, or a yard of silk that flutters in the wind. Just anything to help me fly.