The insides of me cry
and they do it the same way woman on the TV do
face red, hysterical, tissue in hand
Aching In the way No one can
know, I am trying to find the
beginnings of this lump in my heart
which break can I attribute it to?
Learning to Love her, letting her go?
The women who bite half moons into her thighs
Or the men that tell you it’s okay when they slip their hands into your *******
eyes flooding, inside out
So it could never be force?
Thinking about how many bus rides I took to Philly,
the broken bed frame at the apartment in the Bronx I had to leave
your smell got into the paint in the walls.
The truth in between spoken words you wish to take back
and people a few blocks down,
the regret in not taking the long way.
or that nothing feels the same when I am with you?
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
The insides of me cry
and they do it the same way woman on the TV do
face red, hysterical, tissue in hand
Aching In the way No one can
know, I am trying to find the
beginnings of this lump in my heart
which break can I attribute it to?
Learning to Love her, letting her go?
The women who bite half moons into her thighs
Or the men that tell you it’s okay when they slip their hands into your *******
eyes flooding, inside out
So it could never be force?
Thinking about how many bus rides I took to Philly,
the broken bed frame at the apartment in the Bronx I had to leave
your smell got into the paint in the walls.
The truth in between spoken words you wish to take back
and people a few blocks down,
the regret in not taking the long way.
or that nothing feels the same when I am with you?
