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Kiernan515Poems
The next time you tell a woman she’s beautiful, you will mean it less — because you have already meant it most. She looks like a safe bet. How boring for you. She will never make your hands shake when you try to button your shirt — the buttons slipping like stones from your fingers, like your body forgot how to be steady because someone like me was looking at you. It was never that serious. Except, maybe, it was. She will never make you reroute your whole life just to cross her path. She won’t know what it’s like to catch you looking at her mouth like it’s a dare you want to take — but we know you’re all talk. She wasn’t a hard person to love. She was just a girl who knew how to sit still. And you — you were just a man who had only ever loved things that were easy to set down. You wanted something simple — a woman like a neatly folded sweater: wrinkle-resistant, polishes you up, easy to pick up, easier to put away. But simple things never ruin your appetite. They never make you whisper, "God, what’s wrong with me?" because you can’t stop thinking about the car crash in your rib cage that you wrote off as a particularly bad day. But some bruises bloom twice, and some wrecks keep ringing in your ears. I was never easy to love — but God, I was worth it. And when I was yours, you were someone better. Isn’t that just vile? It was never serious. Except, apparently, it was. Now I hope you choke on how simple it feels. I hope you spend the rest of your life wondering why you never had to catch your breath when you kissed her. I hope her laugh sounds too much like mine. I hope you hear my name in her silence. I hope she kisses you in a dark bar, and for one awful second, you forget whose lips are on yours. I hope you miss me across midnights and hate yourself for it. I hope my scent won’t wash out of sheets I’ve never slept on — like something you swore you imagined, until you smell it again. I hope you never stop searching out my poems, then deleting your history. I hope certain lines jangle like change in your pocket over every street you’ll ever walk. I hope the sharpest edges of my words are so embedded in your psyche, you can’t remember if it's a Vonnegut quote, your own inner monologue, or me — your real favorite writer. I know I’ll never hear from you again — but when you quote me in your head, I hope you taste blood. I hope you keep walking — but never walk away clean. It was never that serious. Except, I guess, it was.
0
Mar 16, 2025
Mar 16, 2025 at 7:13 AM UTC
the next time you tell a woman she's beautiful
The next time you tell a woman she’s beautiful, you will mean it less — because you have already meant it most. She looks like a safe bet. How boring for you. She will never make your hands shake when you try to button your shirt — the buttons slipping like stones from your fingers, like your body forgot how to be steady because someone like me was looking at you. It was never that serious. Except, maybe, it was. She will never make you reroute your whole life just to cross her path. She won’t know what it’s like to catch you looking at her mouth like it’s a dare you want to take — but we know you’re all talk. She wasn’t a hard person to love. She was just a girl who knew how to sit still. And you — you were just a man who had only ever loved things that were easy to set down. You wanted something simple — a woman like a neatly folded sweater: wrinkle-resistant, polishes you up, easy to pick up, easier to put away. But simple things never ruin your appetite. They never make you whisper, "God, what’s wrong with me?" because you can’t stop thinking about the car crash in your rib cage that you wrote off as a particularly bad day. But some bruises bloom twice, and some wrecks keep ringing in your ears. I was never easy to love — but God, I was worth it. And when I was yours, you were someone better. Isn’t that just vile? It was never serious. Except, apparently, it was. Now I hope you choke on how simple it feels. I hope you spend the rest of your life wondering why you never had to catch your breath when you kissed her. I hope her laugh sounds too much like mine. I hope you hear my name in her silence. I hope she kisses you in a dark bar, and for one awful second, you forget whose lips are on yours. I hope you miss me across midnights and hate yourself for it. I hope my scent won’t wash out of sheets I’ve never slept on — like something you swore you imagined, until you smell it again. I hope you never stop searching out my poems, then deleting your history. I hope certain lines jangle like change in your pocket over every street you’ll ever walk. I hope the sharpest edges of my words are so embedded in your psyche, you can’t remember if it's a Vonnegut quote, your own inner monologue, or me — your real favorite writer. I know I’ll never hear from you again — but when you quote me in your head, I hope you taste blood. I hope you keep walking — but never walk away clean. It was never that serious. Except, I guess, it was.
#love#revenge#vile#venom#heartbreak
Kiernan515
Written by
Kiernan515
American
Mar 16, 2025
Mar 16, 2025 at 7:13 AM UTC
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