I lent a book to a boy: who I had mistaken for a man, who I let touch me with his hands, who I had convinced that I cared. But in the swiftest motion was left in bed alone with a book I never intended on seeing again.
I had always been the pliable one... the one that always asked herself, “How much could you use me until you were done?” I resigned to bed sheets: comatose... the idea of loneliness sinking in... wondering if you were thinking of me.
I wasn’t always flexible, but always willing to bend and break on your behalf until you decided to flee the coup. Because that’s when I finally bucked up and stood my shaky ground and realized you were actually the lonely one.
I didn’t think I could find a love so whole... a partner I feel like I’ve known from long ago, a swell and burst whenever they are near, a flutter of butterflies where my heart is supposed to be.
In the past, I had been hastily dealt the illusion and lived a lovesick life stuck in a delusion. But now I think I finally found the “one” in a boy from the town I tend to call home.