You have been offline for an entire day.
You are kissing another girl,
I just know it.
You are caressing her soft hair,
you are getting rid of her silk underwear,
you are loving her on your bed,
wrapped in the sheets that once covered our bodies.
You are falling in love with her,
no,
you are already in love with her.
You are going to abandon me.

My heart shrinks and I can't breathe.
Why, why couldn't you love me?
Why couldn't it be me?
You are going to abandon me
as soon as you turn on your phone.
Maybe I should abandon you first,
maybe I should disappear,
maybe this way it would hurt less.

Then you are online again,
you say "Henlo" with the "n"
as you always do,
and I'm waiting for you to tell me about the girl,
that you are sorry,
that you didn't mean to.

But you tell me your battery died
and that you collapsed drunk on your friend's bed
and that you miss me.

Suddenly, I can breathe again.
You didn't abandon me.
But that sneaky thought is still in the back of my head:
you didn't abandon me yet.
But you will.

i.

I intentionally failed to wish you
a happy birthday this year,
though I know significant dates,
hours, moments, people,
by heart.
I still search for you in boys
I mistake for bandages,
the ones with eyes almost
the same shade of your hazels,
lips resounding your laughter,
resembling a wisp of your smile,
But they aren't you.

ii.

Sometimes I pretend you're dead,
because it's less painful
to stop reaching out into voids.

iii.

My mom still blames you
for everything that preceded that year.
Though you probably had no idea what happened
when we stopped talking altogether.
Can you believe it's almost been three years?

iv.

My dad wonders who was my 'one that got away'
Though, I'm pretty sure he knows
it's you.

v.

Remember how I mentioned Sylvia Plath?
How most everything she wrote
brimmed with melancholy?
How I loved every single word?
Especially that piece
where she talked about expectations
and disappointments.
You'll never know that
up to this day I still think
people are selfish enough to
always, eventually turn into the latter.
Even you.

vi.

It's sad I never got the chance
to tell you about Ted.
How she loved him so much,
she just had to dive headfirst
into the flames-- burning herself,
what was left of her--
after she found out
he never really loved her
the same way
she loved him
in the first place.

vii.

truth is,
some of us
never learn to accept
the love we think we deserve.

viii.

I don't know if you still read my poems
or if you still think about me,
about us, sometimes.
Every time you fall asleep past eleven,
a part of me hopes you do.
because I always remember you--
in birthday candles, red ribbons,
off-tune voice records, golden arches,
concrete sidewalks, pedestrian lanes,
the last flickers of city lights
softly fading out of the blue.
I remember you
in everything, in everywhere,
in everyone.
It's useless, no matter how much I try to forget.
No matter how much I just want to forget.
I want to forget.

But, how could I?

When forgetting means forsaking
the very memory of you.

My father walked me down the aisle,
But my mother held my arm.
He went with me,
But we went not towards the altar,
But towards the door.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And the ***** rang through the church,
Humming through the elaborate crown molding,
Carved by my ancestors.

He went,
Not beside me,
But before me,
And I watched,
As he was illuminated by the bright,
Overbearing,
Texas sun.

My father walked me down the aisle,
But I did not wear white.
My father walked me in silence,
And I shed tears not for a man standing at the altar,
But for the one I would never see again.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And no veil obscured my face.
All eyes were upon me, but not for my pristine beauty,
Instead for my clenched jaw and furrowed brow,
Severe and fierce to distract from my glassy eyes.

My father did not leave me at the end of our walk to sit beside my mother.
She clung to me for support and sobbed breathlessly,
Loudly,
Unavoidably,
And I carried her with one hand,
My sister the other,
And walked towards my future.
A future family,
Not one person more,
But one person less.
I walked,
One final time,
With him.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And I will never forget it.
Hundreds of eyes isolating my family from the crowd,
Slow and muffled sounds drowning in the deafening beat of my heart,
Blurred faces staring,
Black heels clacking against the cobbled path from the church,
The anguished wails of my mother,
The whimpering of my sister,
And the wooden box that glided before us,
Pulling,
A string tied to our patriarch,
The pin key of our family,
Pulled taut and then snipped with the slam of the hearse doors.

My father walked me down the aisle,
Before I had a chance to grow up.
He walked me,
Out of the church,
Away from the altar,
Never to be walked again.

Finally the storm comes crashing against my inner walls.
The wind howls, like a pack of a thousand wolves thirsty for revenge, for blood, for tender meat to sink their teeth into. Flash - lightnings, black and white dots of an old television, nails scratching on a blackboard, a dry throat, run, girl! Fast! Let all this tangled mess of nerves, confusion, boiling anger and tearing pain stop, let it stop, run! Faster! with the tumtum of your footsteps echoing in your skull like a death march - is it sweet? - with the sweat dipping from your temples, following the curves of your cheeks, impacting - plic - on the soil - soil? Mud, sticky mud that glues to your feet, to your ankles - is it even raining? Why is everyone shouting why are my ears bleeding the only thing I want is *******  -

Silence.
On this balcony.
With a cigarette in my hand, with Wish You Were Here in the air, with thoughts of you filling my mind. With your voice whispering in my ears you're the most wonderful person I’ve ever known.
Silence.
With my fingertips tracing the arch of your eyebrow, with my back pressed on the grass. With my hair following the air flow, while I’m riding a stolen bike, while my arms are circling your figure.
Silence.
Because my heart is quiet when I remember you. When I wasn’t just a reservoir for ***, cuddles or warmth, when my aim wasn’t just to support, to soothe, to calm down.
Silence.
Because I had a value. Because I was a person as a whole, from head to toe, from the very last tip of my blue locks to the smooth white tip of my black Converse.
Silence.
How I wish you were here.

What’s the point
in dressing a fake plastic tree with warm lights and shiny *****,
in wrapping up perfumes, candles and strawberry-scented shower gels,
in exchanging smiles and Merry-something
with that family friend who has been knowing you since you were born
and who has taught you how to tie your shoes,
with that girl who was your best friend when you were fifteen,
who shared with you the first Lucky Strikes
and who used to wipe your cheeks
when your black make-up left wet trails.
What’s the point
if you cannot wrap up a warm wool sweater
or some after-shave lotion
or ties, socks, gloves
or whatever you feel like wrapping up
for your dad.