"If you are not growing
then you are dying."
For a second I stood stagnant,
I was dying, with eyes wide open.
There were the moments I felt alive,
when I was in your arms,
and your lips were whispering truths
along mine,
truths neither of us understood- yet.
When we were out of breath,
our hearts caught somewhere
in our throats,
and our bones were in love with each other,
but our brains could not admit it- yet.
There were those moments,
and then I was dying.

And he came,
with whispers and soft fingers,
he sat across from me
and bought me a sugary carrot cake,
and I sipped on hot chocolate
and I kicked his feet with mine,
like old times,
like-
like my best friend.
I met his place for the first time,
the first one of us to have left,
to be making it on their own-
and my eyes were wide with novelty.
Again,
I sat across from him,
an unopened wine bottle between us,
with my secrets about you
taking up space at the table,
with his words about your lies,
and my fears exposed on my skin.
I was almost in tears.
And he took a breath
and spoke,
about some night with friends,
and how it turned into an idea,
that maybe we could learn together.
He looked me in the eyes,
eyes I had known as comfort,
and said,
"I don't love you like this now,"
and he took my hand,
"but I can learn to love you,
I can open that door for you,
like he doesn't want to,
like he won't ever do for you."
There were all sorts of hurt
floating in the air around us:
it was intoxicating.
He kissed me-
this, this boy, my best friend,
he placed his hand on my lap,
and he kissed me;
shyly at first,
and then,
and then I wasn't there anymore.
I was pretending,
that I wasn't pretending it was you.
I came back to covers,
the first time I had been like this
on a bed,
and I thought,
why couldn't this be you?
And I felt *****,
like if his hands had smeared my body
with glue
and all the lint, dust and dirt
were sticking to my skin
like leeches,
slimy, gooey, gross.
I was there,
and I was hiding.
Ashamed.
He looked like he would be smoking,
if that were his thing,
and it was quiet.
I wanted to throw up.
He wanted to go to work.
I wanted a hug,
he'd had what he wanted.
He didn't even take me home.
At home,
I sank into the bathroom floor.
And I cried.
Because it wasn't you,
and I had failed;
because I knew
what friendship that was,
was now dead;
Because I wanted to die,
than face you
with my body tainted;
I cried
because that's how I learned
I loved you.
And I cried again,
when you cried,
and I have cried again,
when you aren't there,
and I feel the shame,
shame, shame, shame,
flowing through my veins,
and the bile rises up,
and I want to forget.
He took my body,
to make the sadness feel less,
for me, for him,
to make the hurt smell like desire
instead of pain,
and that did not work:
I loved you,
and he could not love me,
I loved you,
empty spaces and question marks;
and it made me sad,
perhaps as sad as him.