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-the raindrops remind me of waking up on 4th of July feeling lonely.
-my sheets whisper your name everytime i dare to move. i ache.
-my last text from you was 8.12.13
-You are beautiful. and i am sad. We will never work out.
-sometimes i wear red lipstick to see my psychiatrist. I just want to feel strong.
-i sleep for 14 hours and wake up tired.
-the ghosts in my room tug on my curls. they remind me of You.
-i feel tainted.
-oh god, oh god, oh god.
-whilst i sleep the waves rush over my head. i feel peace.
-there have been bugs in my veins since the last time we slept together.
-i am nothing, i am nothing, i am nothing.
-i have been using clever words so You will think i still have a brain.
-i sit in the bath until it turns grey to remind myself that i am dirt.
-i can not be a self love poem.
-You left me drunk and naked everytime.
-i am the beginning of a long, cold winter.
-i am a snowflake amongst sunflowers and children playing.
-Pain. Pain. Pain.
-the ringing in my ears has gotten louder since You said You missed me.
-i will never be Sylvia Plath.
-these walls scream out my secrets.
-i would like to be naked Polaroids and cocktails
but i am £2.31 white wine and ugly obscenities.
-i am an increase of prozac.
-You always mentioned your hate for winter.
-i will crave you for eternity.
-the earth will tremble like my voice. hands. eyes.
-this rain will last forever.
I haven't moved for 4 hours.
I'd rather stink like a cigarette
than smell your skin lingering on mine.
I prefer the nicotine rush
to the surge in my blood when your lips touch mine.
I'd rather hear the click of my lighter
than the hiss and explosion of the Fourth of July
An ashen glow of smokey tobacco lights my way
And I'd rather put trust in this fading fire than
put my trust in the pounding of my chest
and the sparklers in my eyes
Because there's always one more pack
at yet another corner store
But, my love,
there's only one of you
and you're fading so fast
And without my addiction, how can I last?
i started smoking again after meeting her
As the stars resume their place in the night sky,
And as the warm breeze of a small town spring take its course.
As birds of the night come out and sing their song
And as the quietness of the evening takes us along,
I will sit with you here under the moonlight.
We'll listen to the music of our hearts,
Let our minds entwine and surrender.
Maybe see our dreams play its role,
Maybe tonight,
We'll stare into each other's soul.
You were suppose to hold me tight at midnight
You were suppose to tell me I am beautiful
You were suppose take me out and show me off to your friends and family
You were suppose to kiss me every day
You were suppose to tell me that I was the one
You were suppose to say I love you
But instead you were with her
The girl you claimed that was your friend
The girl you said you did not like the way you liked me
The girl you kissed in public
You held her like she was a diamond
You kissed her like she was beautiful
You loved her like she was the one
You were right, you did not like her the same way you like me, you loved her and liked me.

-Susan
If he or she can not say they love you and mean it, then darling, it is time to move on.
I appreciate you for kissing me when no one else would & holding my hand no matter how cold it was;
& for always remembering that i'm more delicate than your lips & this kind of love can only happen once;
& the fact that I always loved you more, but you somehow always showed me more love;
& no matter how angry I made you, you always forgave me because you knew that the ocean would sink itself if it could;
& for always crawling past the bad times, because you knew how beautiful the good times were; because you knew how beautiful we were.

If you ever read this I want you to know:
The one thing I loved more than your smile was the way you smiled at me;
& the reason I couldn't love you any harder was because I put all of my love into writing about you, not actually giving that love to you;
& I forgive you for giving up on me, I would have given up on a fully lit moon also;  i'm sorry I couldn't illuminate the night sky every night for you;
& all of the reasons I couldn't kiss you as hard as I wanted to were all the same reasons why I want to die with you in my arms;
& the way you used to look at me felt like skydiving with no parachute on, or being the last one standing in a game of dodgeball, or sinking to the bottom of a bathtub that's filled with your love & affection, or running a marathon while running on no hours of sleep, or seeing the moon for the first time, or realizing that the love we had is more meaningful than any high paying dead-end job, or traveling the world, or feeling something for somebody they said was an impossible feeling.

If you ever read this I want you to know, thank you, for everything.
while waiting for the next girl in barnes & noble you can pull out an anatomy book and trace my bones like you wish you could have done before when it was still a viable option
you inched her name into our conversations because it tasted like honey and devil's food cake on your tongue, looked away when i begged for answers
left me writing you letters you never read and calling your name and wishing you good morning like the good girl i wanted to be even though i’d grown so weak
behind your frames who did you see when you saw me? i want to know, i want to know if the guy before saw the same wide-eyed half-smiling half-crying picture of naivety
i hate sensing patterns
you knew
you knew
you knew
but you did it anyway
i knew
i knew
i knew
the ending very well
and i let it happen anyway as if i didn’t know any better
i kept waiting for the broken traffic light to change.
i shivered because my cardigan was too thin,
high-low chiffon skirt pulling an unwanted marilyn and sending chills as i stepped onto the platform,
phone in my hand at 63%, got texts from everybody but you
body trembling on the walk home under the moonless sky.
from now on trusting is going to feel like an olympic sport
i've never been that athletically adept but i'll learn to pole vault the hell away next time when i see the signs loud and flagrant.
third time's the charm right?
wrote this last night when i was feeling bummy.

tonight, on the other hand, was so beautiful though
#eh
athymia:
1. the absence of emotion; morbid impassivity.

exhibit A.
she passes through tunnels of silken sheets and wind chambers with gusts that leave trails of kisses. she lives in a dream. when their lips met for the first time, she looked into his eyes with a question and he didn't say yes to take a crash course on the beating of her heart. he took advantage of the moment, unwary of the precarious nature of his words and actions. but wide-eyed and naive she said yes, because it is a word the vulnerable mutter all too frequently with uncommon ease. they are still an entity, but unbeknownst to her lies a world of secrets she has yet to discover about him. lies. he doesn't love her, he is still confused. yet he keeps the charade going like a mastermind. if you can't have the one you love, love the one you’re with. she continues to paint daisies on the walls and on her wrists. everything is perfect.

exhibit B.
physics says that force times distance is equal to work. she's more of a science ****** than anything, and i am not talking about breaking bad in the slightest. no one wants to do anything in the dead of winter because it is as frigid as the underbelly of a monarch penguin, but she moves as fast as a monarch butterfly on her quest for his heart. she's fallen victim to one of the most powerful spells of levitation, and we wait until the efficacy of gravity strikes. we wait so she can learn her lesson, that science cannot teach you the ways of the heart, that you can have as many late night conversations, warm embraces, and clandestine glances as possible, and it could still predict naught of the future. she has yet to learn this, and she also has yet to say "i'm sorry." and this, i wait for, but i will not hold my breath.

exhibit C.
stung. she has been stung by the harbinger of indecision. she dreams of a beautiful world that carries with it the love she needs, but it is by vicious nature for her to reject others and feel dejected. she does not stare at happiness at first, but she stares at potential. pretty little potential with a ribbon on top, glimmering in the dusk. she does nothing but question it ceaselessly until it shrinks away like the wrap used to encase it. he is potential. so was that guy, and the guy before, and so on and so forth until we reach the factorial of four. she was never good at math, but she could count up all her insecurities like simple addition and simply subtracted people in her life thereafter if they made her feel the slightest of some way she thought she shouldn't. but at the end of the night she is on the cusps of complacency, twining fingers with memories that dance with her until the sun stretches awake. cheating apathy with reflection.

exhibit D.
he remembers the teasing lilt in her voice and blue ribbon she set in the back of her hair ("it's more of a cerulean, don't you think?"), and conjuring the images of her within his clouded mind is elementary biology. he places the vinyl in the record player, and plays "no surprises." not his favorite, but when he knows it was hers. he sits on his bed and the each note hits him in a different part of his body, and he keeps withdrawing from the memory bank. they're slow dancing in his room, her gentle laugh at his missteps is glitter cascading to the floor, and soon their bodies are shifting in a foreign way and he later wakes feeling the weight of starlight nestled upon his chest. then the sky turns red. not maroon or soft sunset but a flash of pure red. the hands of the clock twist to form sequences of circles, the calendar pages turn like a bestseller. he says things he doesn't mean to girls who yearn to hear them, and his hands guide their way through jungles with quicksand and a sahara with no oasis. needless to say, everything has changed. he recalls the careful penmanship on the letter she wrote, and they are standing face to face at the bus stop issuing quiet goodbyes. the record ends but the images are bright and vivid. funny how piano keys, though simply black and white, bleed thousands of audible colors. he mulls this over until he enters slumber.
wrote this so long ago i have to wrack my mind to remember who it's about

— The End —