i've never been to
a confessional but i
told you i loved  you
while you held me in a
dark bedroom and i
think that's close
enough.

Is this how a first love is supposed to be?
Indestructible and Irrevocable? Hanging
over your head even 10 months after and
counting cautiously? Carrying this dark
heavy cloud beyond the border of sanity?
Pacing and passing by all your positivity,
creating colossal chromatic colours of blacks
and greys up and down the edges of your
spine?

Following you? Never ever leaving you?
Watching over you in that devil-on-your-
shoulder-conscience kind of way? Restricting
and retreating the surface of your sentiments
until they've all been turned to ash and embers
of doubts and lost longings?

Preparing you for disappointment, always & forever?
Like that first time you locked lips and left the key at
the bottom of the ocean? Like that last time you laced
ligaments between the sheets of some paperweight
comforter?

Under all that dust and debris, does it bury deeper
in the cracks between your heart—or solely in the
space where it's supposed to be? Does it feed on
your sorrows and make homes out of the abandoned
buildings of your bones? It does, doesn't it? This is
how a first love is supposed to be? That even when
a second walks your way, you can't help but flinch?

gd

the highway lanes began to spread
like my veins, full of life
criss-crossing, bobing, weaving
and my heart began to pulse
so **** fast
faster than the cars that passed me
going eighty, cruising
driving a little reckless
despite having my whole life
packed in the back
of a ten foot Uhaul
everything I own bouncing
up and around
while heat waves
swam from the ground

That's when it really sank in
everything I've grown to know
is changing

"hollow"
would be an
understatement
if i were trying to
describe how i felt
lately.

i have no words left.

it's been  t w o  years
so i  don't  remember
any  specific  things  i
used  to  note when  i
would lie   next to you
and  find  the   perfect
metaphors   for   your
perfect  features.   the
only  stories i  have to
tell now are  the  ones
about how  i  think  of
you every  single  day
s       t       i       l       l
but  after  t w o  years
i have   finally   started
to  address   the   pain
of being    second best
and   lately,   not  even
the thought of    y  o  u
r      h  i  p  s   pressed
onto hers hurt me more
than how i feel on days
i eat,    or the  sight  of
myself      in the mirror.