Mar 2014
Sheepishly, pathetically still writing about you and it is just who I am.
I am the girl who clings until I see you clinging to someone else.
It was programmed into my DNA, my veins and skin to love you until I am assured you do not even think of me, not even by accident in your sleep.
It was programmed into my heart to pour out affection even if it meant spilling out like a full glass knocked off of a table, making a scene and a mess to clean up later.
I don't know any other way to move on than to write. I can't fathom making it out of this without pen and ink, sadly at your expense.
Ink is in my veins and you were once too.
I'll try bleeding you out on paper in hopes that some odd number of poems later, you'll be mere rhymes and word play.
Writing about you is all I have left and I hope it's all that is left of you in me.
I know you're far and can't be reached so I hope these poems and words are like pulling rocks out of my shoes and pockets so I don't feel weighted down by the thought that you've moved on and I haven't.
Don't mistake these words for an attempt to keep you around. I'm trying to get you out, one ink stain dripping out of a sliced vein at a time.
I am the girl who clings until I see you clinging to someone else.
It was programmed into my DNA, my veins and skin to love you until I am assured you do not even think of me, not even by accident in your sleep.
It was programmed into my heart to pour out affection even if it meant spilling out like a full glass knocked off of a table, making a scene and a mess to clean up later.
I don't know any other way to move on than to write. I can't fathom making it out of this without pen and ink, sadly at your expense.
Ink is in my veins and you were once too.
I'll try bleeding you out on paper in hopes that some odd number of poems later, you'll be mere rhymes and word play.
Writing about you is all I have left and I hope it's all that is left of you in me.
I know you're far and can't be reached so I hope these poems and words are like pulling rocks out of my shoes and pockets so I don't feel weighted down by the thought that you've moved on and I haven't.
Don't mistake these words for an attempt to keep you around. I'm trying to get you out, one ink stain dripping out of a sliced vein at a time.
Still working on moving on. It'll continue to take time and it isn't a race, but I have noted that the people I've dated we're more successful in moving on faster than I had. With that said, it is harder to be the slower one. Writing helps and hinders; am I writing to hold on to to move forward? Still deciding on that, but this is how I cope best. Regardless, I'll continue to write and hopefully for the right reasons.
