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Paola M Apr 2014
why is it that i begin to
resent anyone who starts
to care about me.
what is so poisonous
about a hug or a good
morning message,
what is it that i'm allergic
to all of my friends can't
wait to get their hands on.
keep it away, i know how
it all ends, i know every
future argument that
sits dormant in your fist,
i won't be the one to wake it.
you can save your affection
for someone else, because i
don't need it.
the truth is, i'm terrified of it.
terrified of anything vulnerability
brings, so if you'd like to stay in my
life, pick up a rock and help
me keep building this wall,
convince me to keep people out
so i can keep happiness in.
i don't need to hold his or her hand
as much as i need to hold my own.
i've only got me.
i've never felt more alone.
Paola M Apr 2014
somedays i wonder how you're doing without me
wonder if you're still sleeping with your weird orange
pumpkin and pretending it's me pressed up against
your chest,
wonder if you ever look at your phone around midnight
and remember the last time that we talked.
you told me a corny joke, because you always knew i loved them.
you brought the sunshine around at 6am when
my air conditioner was loud enough to muffle our voices
and if someone had pressed their ear against the door
they would've heard us saying
"olive you, olive you more, olive you more than more, olive you most.
olive you mostest toastest."
and that was it.
the last night that we ever talked as lovers,
because the next day you laid your hands against her cheek,
and your fingerprints memorized the outline of her body
and forgot the coldness of mine.
some nights i can still hear the echos
of your ringtone,
i can still feel the ghosts of your kisses send
shivers down my spine.
but i'll be okay, cutiepie.
i'll be just fine.
i'm learning that happiness comes without you,
i'll be alright.
Paola M Mar 2014
Hand on my bare thigh
Dig your nails in my cold skin
Turn me into clay
I want to be your masterpiece
A work of art discovered
Under the sheets.
Michelangelo sculpted with his hands
But sculpt me with your lips
Leave kisses on my neck in the outline
Of Donatello's St. George
And don't leave a piece of me untouched
Our private exhibit
Darling, mold me.
Paola M Mar 2014
my phone rang today and the caller id was restricted,
before i even answered, i knew that it was you.

"hi, how are you?"
a voice filled with a dose of memories,
a voice that sounded like nights spent
laying awake, thinking about how to hide
the marks you left on my body,
the battlescars of a little girl being drafted
into something she was not ready for,
maturing overnight for the man who
she thought she was ready for,
being afraid of how he made her
feel as if she didn't deserve anymore.

"i miss you"
brought me back to the night
that i came home from spending two weeks
in texas, tanned legs, brimming with stories,
but you only wanted me to apologize for
leaving you alone for so long.
i want to go home, take me home,
no, no, no. please stay with me.

"you know that i'm sorry."

grabbing my wrist,
your love was the color of petunias.
Paola M Mar 2014
The pain is ridiculous, pointless.
Because one day it will all be over.
My skin will return to dust
And never remember your touch.

How I wish I was alive to
Know what that feels like.
Paola M Mar 2014
is a letter away from petty.
comes between “just a” and “face.”
It comes between “don’t worry your” and
“little head about it.”
Pretty is stones, snowflakes,
leaves and streams.
Pretty is looked on

from a distance.

Pretty does not have a life all its own.
Pretty exists to be
Pretty does not need.
Pretty is not needed.
is not

Pretty is not moving
or significant;
or intelligent.


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