You once asked me why I love you.

The mascara of curiosity outlined the questioning glare of your eyes, and your fruity scented lipgloss covered your worrisome words with a hint of doubt – and  strawberries.

And just as I was about to pluck the ripest answer from the back of my mind you interrupted me and planted seeds of insecurity you so desperately try to force under the earth – away from the eyes of those who live above it.

You remind me of the way you push me away whenever the going gets tough, even though together we're tougher than anything rough, pushing back harder than any kind of force that you apply on me whenever I'd ask, "What's wrong?"

You remind me of the way you cling to me like magnets on a fridge,

of the way you can't hold much of a conversation because you're awfully shy,

Of the way your interests differ from mine,

Of the way your smile lacks luster compared to other girls' smiles.

So I remind you, that whenever you'd push me away I'd pull you in even closer,

that my hands cling on to your waist, like magnets on a fridge,
and that we'd stand there with me embracing you, and silence embracing us, because worrying about words to say would only get in the way of me appreciating what's in my arms,

I remind you that my interest in kissing you, differs in your interest in kissing me.
And that your interest in my smile differs from my interest in your smile, unique and perfect on you and simply only you,
Never will it fit better on anyone else.

So you ask, and I reply,

The answer is quite simple love,
My heart is forever yours, because all of the above.

you never really hated the memories,
only who you shared them with

Why bother walking up to me with your fake plastic smile?
I know you could care less about me,
So why pretend to be nice?
I don’t care,
You don’t care,
Nobody cares.

Love is just this word that is thrown around without meaning.
It can be said and then taken back within seconds.
Like feelings don't even matter,
Like my heart doesn't even matter.

Don't say you love me,
Thats all just a lie.
Its a phrase that we act out until this "love" is dead.

But truth is, our love was never alive.

there are two types of girls,
or so I was told:
church girls and
bad girls, and my mother
said this with such finality it was
clear they were mutually exclusive.

of course,
you know this is
Not True;
you once characterized yourself as
"the type of 'church girl' to light a
blunt in the bathroom (just sayin)" and
that single quote says more about you than
all this fragile wording, this silica dust
heated and wrought into intricacies and
metaphor and conceit.
You
are far more than
a bad girl,
are far more than
a church girl,
will never be
my girl
and this is how it should be.
you are not
to be domesticated
a la Robin Thicke; you are
uncontrollable, your lust and
disdain for monogamy
twin hurricanes, destroying
New Orleans in a heartbeat and
rendering FEMA
impotent in the next.

there are two types of girls:
other girls, and
You.

They tell you to quit smoking.
They tell you to quit drinking.
To quit laughing,
quit loving,
Living.
Because it shortens your life,
they tell you.
Because it's bad for your health,
they tell you.
Have a drink, friend,
have a smoke,
that's what's good for the soul.
Long walks at two in the morning
skipping stones over concrete oceans,
that's what's good for the soul.
Pretty women with pretty
legs, that say all sorts of
pretty things, but never too
loud, or too often, that's
what's good for the soul.
Watching as those pretty legs storm
out of the hotel room after
you said the wrong thing again. Fixing
up that last glass of
whiskey and enjoying it
alone instead. Fighting in
the back of bars over
spilled drinks or spilled
words or someone who slept
with someone else. That's
what's good for the soul.
To take a hit and to hit.
To love and to hate.
To live.
That's what's good for the soul.

I know how to say
"I love you" in
English and French,
and Spanish and Italian,
and Russian and Bulgarian,
and Arabic and Dothraki
and High Valyrian,
and Klingon,
and in any other language
you ask,
I know how to
write "I love you"
in Gallifreyan and
Tengwar,
I know how to make up
a billion different poems
about my love for you.

But still, it won't make you
love me back. I somehow
was never enough for you.
You keep me awake every night
wondering why you left
and I think it's high time
I started looking up
how to say "I don't hate you",
"I've moved on", "I don't miss you"
and "I am okay" in all these
languages in which
"I love you" didn't matter.