May 2015
My stomach began to hurt about two days ago. That was the morning I woke up to an empty bed and throbbing head and no messages from you, no "hey darling I got here in one piece," no "goodnight dear." But then again I never date guys who talk like that. My stomach hurt all day and I wanted to talk to you so bad I gave into temptation and you said everything was good and you had "forgotten" to text me and I brushed it off later and didn't ask for the story when your friends kept teasing you about "the married woman you hit on."
My stomach still hurts and it's been two days now and today I told you it hurt and you said "I'm sorry" when all I needed to hear was "I love you, I'm here" and I cried harder than the sky did all the way home and tried to take a nap but now I sit here trying to scrawl down thoughts in the messy way I do when my mind screams with the need to spit them out. I can't understand how it always ends up like this, always hurts like this, LOVE ISNT SUPPOSED TO FEEL LIKE THIS. You've taken my mind in your hands and molded it and my body bends easily to your will and my words will never tell you how much you hurt me because I can't lose you and my head needs to get it out and everyone tells me that my poetry is best when it feels the most real well it feels PRETTY ******* REAL RIGHT NOW and the sickest part is that its when I am most ****** up that I can create the most beautiful things.
You're an artist. Finger-paint my messy mind because no brush strokes could do it justice. See the way that side is always a little smudged, darling? See the way my hands always shake a little, spiderweb lines that map out my grotesque sickness? See my broken inability to understand why you couldn't possibly love me, I know you can't love me, I've seen me I've felt me I've heard me.
You were perfect. Take that label and shove it up your *** hahahahaha. Or maybe stick it on my chest to be worn like a badge of detestable irony, I wish I could hate you but every time I try to breathe out the words "I'm leaving" my mouth says "kiss me" instead.
And all my friends and their cookie cutter boyfriends live their days in warm snuggles and cookies and I breathe blood bubbles and think about throwing my toaster in the shower just for ***** and giggles.
You were mine, are mine? Never mine.
My stomach still hurts and it's been two days now and today I told you it hurt and you said "I'm sorry" when all I needed to hear was "I love you, I'm here" and I cried harder than the sky did all the way home and tried to take a nap but now I sit here trying to scrawl down thoughts in the messy way I do when my mind screams with the need to spit them out. I can't understand how it always ends up like this, always hurts like this, LOVE ISNT SUPPOSED TO FEEL LIKE THIS. You've taken my mind in your hands and molded it and my body bends easily to your will and my words will never tell you how much you hurt me because I can't lose you and my head needs to get it out and everyone tells me that my poetry is best when it feels the most real well it feels PRETTY ******* REAL RIGHT NOW and the sickest part is that its when I am most ****** up that I can create the most beautiful things.
You're an artist. Finger-paint my messy mind because no brush strokes could do it justice. See the way that side is always a little smudged, darling? See the way my hands always shake a little, spiderweb lines that map out my grotesque sickness? See my broken inability to understand why you couldn't possibly love me, I know you can't love me, I've seen me I've felt me I've heard me.
You were perfect. Take that label and shove it up your *** hahahahaha. Or maybe stick it on my chest to be worn like a badge of detestable irony, I wish I could hate you but every time I try to breathe out the words "I'm leaving" my mouth says "kiss me" instead.
And all my friends and their cookie cutter boyfriends live their days in warm snuggles and cookies and I breathe blood bubbles and think about throwing my toaster in the shower just for ***** and giggles.
You were mine, are mine? Never mine.
