when i wrote you letters, they never left the sweaty lines of my palms.

because i wrote you sonnets, beautiful metaphors and explanations about how my heart living inside your hands was like telescopes reaching for moons.

but that's the thing. you left mine unwound, dangling towards the ground and all that my lips held never reached your sky.

all i wanted was to make my stars and moons live inside your eyelids.

but my wishes were like prayers left next to gravestones, and you never brought me daisies.

i gathered up my shells and band-aids and broken bottles after you left. i had no choice.

trying  in vain to find a corner of that expansive empty that could hold all the ripped letters and lost phone calls and scarred knees i had kept hidden underneath my fingernails and toes.

the person i should have been was shattered, g u n f i r e.

you wrecked me, and i have spent three years re-charting all the lost moments and inspirations and understanding that i left on the map of your cynicism.

sometimes i still ache inside my rib cage. sometimes i can't let my lover touch me, because with my eyes closed his touch feels almost like your poison did.

sometimes my words get caught in my throat when i try to breathe.

sometimes the safety of the dirt that never sees the the sun is more comforting than the moon.

but you will never touch me again.



maybe i still want to cry when i feel the pain storming within my bones, but it's not for you anymore.