admittedly, They are right when they say
that teenagers can't love;
they can only
lust
and i guess that's
what i've been doing and it'd
also explain why we don't
speak anymore

and when we do speak, you feel
as if you're speaking to a cold stop-sign
and i feel like
i'm munching down on
cardboard with a gun to my back

and all i would picture was
the texture of your lips and the
length of your pride, as if these
things
could ever be measured without some sort of
bias

In all honesty, i am still not completely convinced:
i can't say i loved you, so i'll find a way around it;

i got shivers when i whiff your scent around burning wood and shaving cream i still read your letters and they break something in me i did know i possessed your heartbeat was all i could hear when i turned off the lights i cry when i learn you still love me or lust after me but frankly it's sort of the same, isn't it?

i'm not allowed to say i loved you, but i promise, just for you, i'll find a way around it.

you were my only fan the only one who would cheer me on if i shaved my skull clean and wore my agony in public you were the only one who consistently thought of me when someone said the word beautiful i might have truly loved you but i'm too green for love and you were a dark blue and i cherished you for it

you were a dark blue and you never loved me, if you believe
what they say about teenage "love."
frankly i don't really care i actually wish
you'd hate me instead

You could never make me feel special without
nurturing the narcissist in me, Dragos, but
i thank you for trying anyway.

And I'm sorry i had to do what i did however
you said you always knew it would end
so why are you sad?

Maybe you want a kiss for every time i
wished you away with my cynical
tone maybe you want a parcel of skin
for every condescending look.

You can't build a castle out of sand and
then act surprised when it crumbles
into the sea.

All i know is that you realized
i was imperfect and somehow that further fueled
your desire.

i don't even want to be your friend if
you're going to be lousy about it or if
you decide you'd rather die than
eat from my hand for the remainder of your
teen years.

it wounds me that i've become some kind of god for you, my
friend, and that i cannot
properly receive your offerings.

i hope that you'll hate me, Dragos, when
i'll start falling for others like a wounded bird
that chooses to stay wounded so that it will always be found and tended to by another boy; i hope that you'll hate me when you learn to love another girl, only to realize she isn't half the me you first fell in love with;
i hope you'll hate me,
so it'll justify my cruelty and coldness,
a man's eye for a woman's,
a gold tooth,
for a rotten one.