I’ve gotten use to broken promises
from the girls who used to pass notes  with me in fourth period geometry
when the teacher wasn’t looking. The crumbled up pieces of notebook paper
coated in scribbled words disguising the secret nicknames
we gave to the guys we didn’t want anyone else to know about still lay scattered
throughout random, dust covered boxes

in my bedroom. I’ve gotten used to the whispers
from those in passing who claimed to only wanted the best for me
as long as that meant proofreading their papers and being available whenever they needed something. Holding their hair back from the after effects of the bonfire Saturday night
knowing they wouldn’t even remember

I was there come the morning light.
I’ve gotten used to being second
compared to those who have more. The red ribbons
and second place certificates coat the walls of my house
serving as a constant reminder to push harder
but know there’ll always someone else

better. I’ve gotten used to lustful words from the boys who claim to love me
as long as my leggings and white t-shirt are lying on the floor
of their bedroom come Friday night.
The radio always seeming to play

the same song which you sang to me that first day.
You reminded me that I was more than whispers in the silence,
broken promises,
and love shown through violence.

I drive past the road leading to your house
signing the same song about how I’m doing just fine
but this empty bed is something I’ll never get used to.
It lacks the warmth of your body filling the vacant spots
mine weren’t touching. It’s missing your extra pillows
that used to speckle the sheets like raindrops
on the pavement outside.
I’ve gotten used to the winds
and the sky not always being blue, but I could never get use to
how I lost you.