three years is a long time.
a long time for anything.
three years of pain, fear,
more than a bit of shame?
a ******* lifetime.
three years of breathing
freely being a chore and
dreading being alone and
wishing for dreamless sleep?
a ******* lifetime.
hell never gets any colder,
and it never gets any easier.
some days you wish for it to
stop, for it to be your last.
and how do you explain it?
not wanting to be alive and
not wanting to die, not yet?
how do you tell yourself, one
more minute, one more breath?
one more hour, day, week?
you don't, and you can't.
you just keep doing it anyway.
in and out, step by step, on and on.

forever.

i looked at that hole in the ground
and i thought of you.
i thought of the holes in your smile,
and the emptiness of your eyes.
i thought of late nights,
and never wanting to see the sun.
i thought of wandering hands,
and stolen naps.

i thought of feeling whole again,
and feeling loved as i loved.
i thought of waiting for you,
and how i will wait for you.
i thought of padiddle and popeye's,
and funny games and friends.
i thought of the beach at night in march,
and i thought of your porch in june.

i thought of how my heart would stop,
just watching you walk to me.
i thought of how i couldn't breathe,
just listening to you breathe beside me.

and now, three and a half months later,
i look at this empty space in my life.
i think of how easily you could fill it.
and i think of how easily i'd welcome you.

but i'm thinking, now, of you.
of how easily you walk away.
of how easily you break my heart,
steal my breath, cause my tears.
of how easily i blame myself,
when it's all your fault.

but you're leaving this summer,
and i don't care anymore.
i'll carry this broken heart.
i'll carry it until there's no hurt left.
but it won't be yours again.
have a brilliant ******* life.

i think it was the kind of love
that alternates heartbeats
and steadies breathing.

i think it was the kind of love
that yearns and wants and
pleads for some kind of cure.

i think it was the kind of love
that soothes the heart and soul,
but still destroys your mind.

i think it was the kind of love
that scratches and gouges and
spits on you when you're down.

i think it was the kind of love
that smiles at you and holds
you close, at the end of the day.

i think it was the kind of love
that changes you and hurts
but leaves you so breathless.

but i bet you don't know how hard it is.
and i bet you don't know how much i want to run.
because i can't tell you everything and
i can't talk about my past
and the things that were important to me, well.
you don't want to hear about them.
and all my special memories are ruined and
i can't share them with you because
you don't want to hear about them.

and all i want to do is to pretend that
we didn't meet the way we did and
we aren't tied together the way we are and
that i don't cry myself to sleep a few nights a week and
i don't ******* love you as much as i do and

you just can't understand.

and you had the biggest eyes i'd ever seen,
soft like smoke but **** so green,
that i skipped my **** and passed it on
just to watch your eyes light up.

and they blocked out the stars
and they blocked out the moon
and all i could see was you.
and then, then i knew, that in you,

i had found i knew what love was.
instead of what love wasn't.

They are strangers now, swinging back and forth.
There are no fireworks, not of the romantic kind.
They are simply strangers, at a park.

One is a daredevil, one is shy;
One likes the merry-go-round, and the other? The swings.

If stars could talk, they’d prophesize such a love story.

In the beginning, she was running, and he was chasing.
At the ending, he was laughing, but she was crying.

In the beginning, there aren’t many words.
Just tickles, and shouts, and blushing cheeks.
Rips in shorts, grass stains on shirts. Promises, too.
Promises of, “If you won’t tell my mom, I won’t tell yours.”

At the ending, close to the ending, she is tired.
So he pushes her on the swing, makes her laugh.
And then he makes her fall.

So she pushes him around and around,
around and around on the merry-go-round.
And when she doesn’t stop, when he falls,
he calls her a name she’s never heard of.

“You’re nothing but a bully,”
followed with, “Well, you’re…
you’re nothing but a *****.”

You’re nothing, she hears. You’re nothing but a *****.
You’re nothing, he hears. You’re nothing but a bully.
“How do you know that word?” As they walk, side by side.

“My dad calls my mom that on Saturday nights,”
as they walk, hand in dirt-covered hand.
“At least I didn’t swing a bottle at you.”

They are in the very wrath of love,
for they war with each other and love no one at all.
They are in the very wrath of love,
a war composed of words unspoken, sights unseen.

They are in the very wrath of love,
for they have found an enemy to love in the other.
They are in the very wrath of love,
a love that knows no past and hardly any future.

They are in the very wrath of love,
for they know there is nowhere for them to go.
They are in the very wrath of love,
a place where words mean more than everything.

They are in the very wrath of love,
for they believe secrets and stories are forever.
They are in the very wrath of love,
a mistake of fate and predestination come to life.

They are in the very wrath of love.