I think you hate me.

I think you hate me,

and I don’t blame you,

but it makes me sad all the same.

Because I don’t hate you.

I miss you and I’m angry.

I love you and I’m jealous

of those people you still keep in your life.

But there’s nothing left to say.

There’s nothing I can do

to undo what went wrong.  
There never was.

Reality leaves no room for fairytales.

Only bitter, empty spaces.

Yes, I believe you hate me.

And I don’t blame you.

I pushed so hard to get an answer
the truth was that

nothing you could say would make me free
nothing you could say would change a thing.
Nothing you could say would make it alright

that I wanted you when you didn't want me.

I do all I can to forget.

I harden my heart
and steel my mind
against the moments and memories
that batter against
all my defenses.
but the dull weapons I use
to remove myself
from this reality forced upon me -
they are weak and of no use,
no use against
the piercing words spoken -
first to woo and then to forsake -
the roving hands attached
to the same arms that pushed me away
in the same breath.

I can not forget.

If there were a time when

my heart could have felt,

in all the mess and brokenness,

something -

some kind of hope, some kind of peace in losing

you...but I never did.           And I still can't.

our past is still my present, and I cannot

understand my life without you.  This gaping hole you left feels

so empty.

once I knew.  I knew what happiness was without you, but now

my heart is filled with hollowness, hidden

under layers of gall.  Now, I

cry myself to sleep, knowing I can never get back what we once

had.

I'm so lonely, I write these poems for you
even though you don't know me
and I don't know you.
You'll never know my name.
Or who they're about.
You'll never know my family
or my face.
But that's the comfort of anonymity.
To say here
what can never be said aloud.
To feel here
What is too hard to feel with them.
Because I know I'll never really be "in"
I know I'll never belong
to them
to him
to anyone.
To be heard, but not known.
To be seen, but not judged.
To speak aloud in the dark.
I'm lonely, so I write here, for you
because you'll never know me.

I remember that time
riding in the car with you
when you were so excited to be with me,
you called ours a healthy relationship.
There was another time
and we were in the car
and you told me about a girl from your past -
how you didn't answer when she called
because you thought she was trying to start something.

I was glad then.  I was glad I was different.

But now, to you, I'm just like her.
You have put me in the same category.
Now you put on your defenses when I'm around.
You hide yourself behind your fortified walls.
And I stand on the other side,
remembering what it was like to stand with you.

I run my hands along them.
And they feel so cold.
I stare at those walls.  

I keep staring,
my heart sinking, anxiety creeping
creeping up through my skin.
I dig my hands into the earth,
searching for something to hold on to
as I stare at those walls, those bitter walls,
remembering what it was like to be with you inside them.

I talk a big talk when you're around.
Yes.
Around you I act so happy -
and part of that is true, because it's you and you're around.
But I talk a big talk.
I can't help it.

Something inside me turns on that has to be strong
When on the inside things are twisting,
so painfully wretching.

Inside is this monster of jealousy,
when you're around.
It captures me.
and trust becomes untrustworthy
when you're around (her).

But when you're around, something in me breathes
that deep breath of what it used to be.

When you're around it's hard to see you leave.
And I can't look you in the eye,
when mine betray me.

All the strength that I had mustered
will melt away like nothing,
and you'll see what's underneath:

You'll see I am not free -  
and the longing that entangles me
when you're around.

it's funny how,
when something breaks,
it can't be put back together
without scars.
you may take the pieces
of a china plate
and put them back together
with super glue;
but the cracks remain and
you must be more careful with it
than you were before.
it's too bad most people aren't so careful.

Every time I look up,
I look for you.
Every letter I open
Every call I receive.
I hold on to a desperate hope
That you'll have realized you love me
That your regret of letting me go
Will overcome your stubbornness.
But that's assuming you feel some regret...

you never come, and
the letters are never from you,
and you never call.
I continue, alone,
Hoping with an empty hope,
Dreaming an empty dream.
I wake up every day from my stupor
knowing I'm still on my own
that all it will ever be is just pretending.
But I still look for you,
I still wait for you
even if it means I'll be alone.

It was a surprise to see him.  He appeared there, as if materializing from her thoughts.  And his shirt matched her dress exactly.  It was a stab to the heart to see him at that play.  The play they had talked about seeing when they were still together.  It was as if fate were mocking her, reminding her of how things never turn out the way you want them to.

She was standing in a group of women when he walked up to them, just to be polite, and her roommate gave her a knowing look.  She voiced the bitter thought about his shirt matching her dress as he engaged one of the women in polite conversation, but she immediately regretted it.  Had he heard?  He made no indication that he had, but she thought he had seen that look her roommate gave her.  She wondered what he was thinking - would he think  she had made her roommate hate him, that she had wanted that?

He started to walk away, and her heart started to sink.  But in that next moment, without even being aware of making the decision, she followed him to the refreshment stand.  She just wanted to talk to him, without anyone else around. But it was an unsatisfying conversation.  She could feel every defense he had, used against her.  In those moments she knew she still wanted him back, but in those same moments knew it didn't matter.  This event was only further confirmation that in real life, fairy tales end cruelly and true love was a reality reserved for other, more deserving girls.  This event would only show up in her long history of hearts broken and hopes dashed.  

When he walked back to his seat, away from her, she knew, once again, the pain of love unrequited.

my love stopped loving me

I don’t know how or when

in our weakness he grew bitter

I could not see it then.

He left me with no heart

and I could not understand

the cold and empty world

without my love’s hand in my hand.

I grew bitter from the wound

I still tried to make him see

I tried to work and sort things out

but it was too late for me.

Our story finally ended,

we both left beaten, bruised;

my heart grew calloused and angry

from disappointment, feeling accused

of things I had not meant, things I didn’t want to be

my love  had seen my sin, and I?

I was too blind to see.

A heart is broken
and broken again.
Broken in so many pieces
it turns to dust.

The dust is blown away.
Nothing remains.

The bits of hope it left behind
are small and scattered.
When the light catches them
they unveil empty rooms and stark, formidable walls.

Nothing is left.

The things he
Remembered - they stained his memory - things that could not be  
Undone, unsaid; the monster he saw her turn into.
She had hoped that it would not be so.  But it was
Too late.  Nothing can change how he sees her now.
                                
                           ­     Nothing can change what she's become.

does it matter that I miss you?
does it matter that I still think you're funny?
does it matter that I still love your smile,
the way you talk
the way you laugh?

does it matter that I still love you?
does it matter that I'm sorry?
does it matter that I can name a million things I would have done differently?

what does it matter?
what does any of it matter?
none of it made any difference.
what did I need to be so that you would have kept loving me?
cooler, more distant?
thinner, or less flippant?
or perhaps not so opinionated and messy.

but what does it matter?

words...so many words.

too many words are not enough

too many words are still too much.

I cannot find a way to cope with my

too many words and your

too few words.

words that wall up any truth from ever reaching me

words so calculatedly cold

words that leave me bitter and empty;

like salt they leave me wanting more.

my words, too many, yours too few.

when did it come to this?

when did it come to this?

and maybe this is the real reason
I hold on to a bitter heart:
it is the only strength I have.

I mean,
what kind of woman am I?
that I would let a man I loved so much
who found the strings that led
to the deepest part of me
take the things that made me most alive?
but no, he didn't take them.
I gave them to him, forced them on him,
and died when he left
out of sheer need to survive.
what kind of woman am i?

the kind who holds on to a bitter heart
as if she were holding onto life.

at night I cry out
into empty spaces.
I cry to You
not knowing if you’re listening
not knowing if you’re there
thinking that I’m crazy for believing.

but I don’t believe.

I don’t believe,
but I keep talking to You
as if you'll answer me.

But you stopped answering long ago.

I cry for what I’ve lost.
but all that follows
is silence.
My God fills my despair with silence.
I keep on struggling in the deafening silence.
But nothing changes because
Nothing is the same.

these are nice thoughts
the things they say -
but how about some reality,
does it ever really play out that way?

those words are nice
and sound real pretty
but in a sea of inaction
words lose all their meaning.

but here is a hypocrite
speaking this wisdom
when all my words and apologies
couldn't change our destruction.