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Aug 2
The night takes the sun,
The cloud is now black.

She will wear the cotton in his voice,
Like a satin waistcoat,

Hearing her call through splintered walls,
And the wind blows as easily as the rain falls,
He feels as though he were a drop,
Hurtling through the sky,
Towards the moss-covered earth at a shattering pace,
Yet barely making a dent,
On the silver side of the place where she was,

On the other side of the door,
Just a track away,
And although she could not see him; she heard his sway,

She will not love him.
For she hardly loves herself.
She will only convince him that she is happy being this mess, this disaster,
And he will have no choice but to believe her,
Because their love is short-lived,
And only exists when she feels worthless and lonely enough to want his company,
He knows this,
She knows this,
Neither of them will say it.
The truth is an ancient myth neither of them has ever heard of.

2 am,
She can't sleep,
Sitting on the bathroom floor,
In the foetal position,
Cradling her own limp frame,
Love, to her,
Was that bottle of bittersweet wine,
Which she held in her hands,
As if it were a crucifix,
Her holy saviour,
Like it would really save her,
And every mouthful of that cheap rosΓ©,
Burning her mouth,
But that was love,

Her Friday nights were filled with excuses and cheap wine,
She'd curl up on her bedroom floor,
She knew she missed him,
But she didn't want to admit it,
She'd dance in the cold, comforting hue of the refrigerator light,
Her face, red and swollen from the tears,

She thought about all the things that they adored,
They both loved summertime and flowers,
Her favourites were peonies,
His were daylilies,

She watched the rain pouring down the window,
And thought about him,
How his smile threatened to shatter his cheekbones,
How she'd rest her head on his chest and dance her fingers like Spider's legs up it,
How she'd count his eyelashes because she felt like every blink might send them flying,
He'd draw lines with his fingers across her freckles,
Imagining they were constellations,

Halfway across the city,
He stumbles in,
Late night,
Working overtime to pay the bills,
Pours himself a cup of tea and sits on the living room floor,

Thinking about her,
Thinking about whether biology could ever explain this ache in his chest,
When she is gone,

He thinks about how hard he works to make sure she gets the happy life she deserves,
He has her measured just right
When she grinds her teeth in her sleep, just rub her jaw gently,
She'll stop without
Waking up.

When he’d read to her in bed,
She'd watch him wide-eyed from his shoulder; Quietly studying his features
As he spoke.
She'd stop him if he lost her between two words she didn't quite understand.
She'd thank you him for explaining.
He was happy to,
She's worth it.

She's allergic to sugar, dairy, gluten
And eggs. He'd made her a hundred recipes, just right,
He had all the tricks
So he knew she'd eat.
He got used to the hassle.
She's worth it.

She was crazy about cartoons.
He'd let her watch them; seeing her laugh beats the game,
She'd love him for letting her read for hours and sit quietly drinking her tea,
Because their love was worth it,
He knew it. She knew it,
But they were both too shy to say.
The truth was an ancient myth they'd only ever read about in storybooks.

Nicotine-stained fingertips,
Curl around a pen,
A mouthful of hazy breath,
Calling it " her friend "

She inhales and holds her breath until she sees black-
blank spots in her vision.
She exhales and releases,
beautiful, long-limbed clouds of smoke.
Shrouding her face, covering her eyes
blinding her to everything,
but these pale tendrils,
fluid and simple,
Are all she wants right now,

To hover not quite at this moment,
Somewhere between the present and the future,
Blades of smoke,
Cut softly through her hair,

Her hand brushes against his,
His mind screams,
louder than even the most horrific of bombs to hold it back,
to close that last ******* space between their hands,
But all he feels,
All that shakes his entire body and soul is this crippling shyness,
That he can't shake,
And he refuses to go it,
It digs its toxic roots down to the depths of  his stomach and refuses to let go and he can't and he won't and he doesn't hold her hand,
He wondered if she loved him back,
He always hides from love,
Batting it away like it doesn't belong to him,
He was always scared,
That his hair is too brown for her to like it,
His eyes too dark for her green,

Little does he know,
She worries too,
That her legs are elegant but they are marked with her disappointment,
The purple and the blue will never go away,
Yes, the bruises will slowly heal,  
But by the time one problem is resolved, another sapling and will slowly take root and show its colours,

She said his heart is made to heal
But he can't find it,
It's buried so deep he can't hear it keeping time to his life song,
It's crushed under all his self-doubts and worries,
In that hollow, it grows,
Like a new bud,

And one day it will turn into a flower,

She mutters " what are you doing? "
His response to her comment is lost on his tongue,
It is somewhere tucked inside his conscience,
Playing hide and seek with the directions on how to talk to boys and how to talk to strangers without turning red,
And he's the seeker,

She tells him that he's beautiful,
But he can't hear her,
The voices taunting him inside his head are too loud for her soft voice,
Arguing about which way right
When he finds his answer it seems as if the time has already left,

It was already heading off in the other direction,
Leaving him tumbling over his daydreams and expectations,
Trying to get a grasp on what was happing,

She always forgot to say thank you
It was sort of a bad habit,
But she's already too focused on work,
She's always too worried about what will happen if she says something wrong,
If he'll turn you away,

He wants her to know that he wants her to stay,
Stay close and hug him whenever he needs it,
So he can help her through her hardships,
And they can help each other's hopes and dreams,
And carry them upon their shoulders.
Because they can speak now,
Truth isn't just a story,
It's their prophecy,

She likes stuffing unhealthy food down her throat and defeating
the urge to throw it all out and pushing it all down into her skeleton so that the food remains into her body, making bumps in her stomach and sticking
out of her ribs like unwanted monsters. she likes being ugly,
She likes that no one ever notices her and when they do, they don't say a word she likes that, she punishes her eyes every morning,
By waking up and realising,
She’s still here,
But he has her,
And she has him.
B The Poet
Written by
B The Poet  15/Non-binary/my brain, where else?
(15/Non-binary/my brain, where else?)   
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