Him:* I think it goes without saying that you and I are pretty much already set on being friends with benefits, and I want you to know that I'm not going to fall in love with you, and not looking for a relationship at this point in my life. And there are other people that I will be seeing.

I don't know what love is, but I know these past few days I haven't been able to keep my mind off of you.

Him: And if that's anything you're not comfortable with, or your expectations are any different, then it shouldn't happen.

But I want it to.

Him: But the last thing I want is anyone being hurt, and I feel like the best way to avoid that is making sure we don't have different expectations.

Pain is an old friend of mine...*

Me: Nope, I'm cool with that.

At first, it feels as if you're being torn apart from the inside out,
Like your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest,
And your whole body aches with sorrow.

Then the pain subsides and is replaced with numbness, nothingness.
The fire in your eyes turns into a faint flicker,
And consumed by emptiness, you start to miss the pain.

Eventually, you begin to feel again,
And the smallest reminder of him cuts you like a blade,
So you take that blade, red with relief, and drag it across your wrists.

You fake a smile and force a laugh
So people don't suspect that something's amiss.
After all, time is supposed to heal all wounds.

Except yours are still fresh.
The very thought of him slices deeper
Because you are unable to forget.

Six months of
wishing,
wanting,
crying,
and trying
to be better,
to maintain a love that was tragically one-sided
and doomed from the start.

*******.

Six months of scars,
of long sleeved shirts
and pathetic excuses,
of lying to my parents
and telling myself,
"Things will get better."

*******.

Six months of long distance,
of broken promises,
missed phone calls,
and waiting for you to come home.

*******.

Six months of leading me on,
of empty words
and false I love you's,
said too soon and too often
but never truly meant.

*****. You.

You asked me once how to define happiness.
I didn’t have an answer;
I still don’t.
All I know is you’re the closest thing
I’ve ever had to it.

He told me that he didn’t like his smile.
“It’s too big,” he said.
But little does he know that a smile like his
could light up an arena.

He told me that he didn’t like his voice.
“It sounds weird on tape,” he said.
But little does he know that a voice like his
could engage the toughest of crowds.

He told me that he didn’t like his laugh.
“It’s loud and obnoxious,” he said.
But little does he know that a laugh like his
could spread as if it were an infection.

He told me that he liked me.
“I want to be with you,” he said.
But little does he know that someone like him
could do so much better than someone like me.

Maybe you could have been more understanding.
Maybe I should have tried harder to be okay.
Maybe we just weren't meant to be
And got lost somewhere along the way.
But maybe if I wasn't so broken,
You would have stuck around,
And that thing we lost, whatever it was,
Could have possibly, just maybe, been found.

I’m not the same girl
I used to be.
Then again, maybe I am
the same,
and it’s everyone
and everything else
that’s different.
Maybe I’m just not adapting
to the changes in my environment.
Maybe I’m still the
idealistic twelve year old
who read romance novels
and ate ice cream while watching Titanic.
Maybe I’m still the
anorexic fourteen year old
who smiled when the number on the scale dropped
and cried when it didn’t.
Maybe I’m still the
ambitious sixteen year old,
striving to put her life back together
and get laid before prom.
(Without much success, of course.)
Maybe I’m still the
infatuated seventeen year old
who fell madly in love with a geeky college boy,
only to get her heart broken.
Maybe I’m just
an eighteen year old basket case
who drinks too much
and smokes too much
and ***** random boys (and girls)
with all the lights off
because she hates her body just as much when she’s drunk
as she does when she’s sober.
Maybe I have changed.
Maybe I never will.
Maybe in the end,
however soon or far off that may be,
I’ll look back and laugh
at my complete and utter stupidity
and inability
to stop thinking and just start
living.
Maybe I’m already dead inside
and just waiting for my body to follow.

I don't intend to leave you all behind,
but I’m beginning to think I already have.

I learned to love another

before myself  

Which is why I love you

even when I do not love myself

and I understand that you don't

love me

because loving me is no ones

priority

not even mine