I was tongue deep in her when you crossed my mind
And I wish you would go away because I can't stand closing my eyes

And imagining it was you there I just miss you something terrible
And I wish I could take back everything I ever said

Some nights I dream of your face
And when I wake up I have the most painful of aches

It starts in my chest and spreads everywhere else
I wish I never ****** up, Barbie

Be silent, I wish you could just listen
For once, at least to my honest admission
I found stars in your eyes, and fire in your gaze-
IT'S ALL WRONG
I will never ever get it
I wanted to write about you
But it's making me feel tragic
You are the fuel, and the flame
It burns well, but ******* all the same

I hope this gets to you like you got to me
I am up to my ears in unwritten words
I hope to god you understand why I could never breathe
I am up to my ears in unsung verses

I think of you when I am alone.

When I am cold, and the warmth of a duvet does not quite match the heat of your body.

When it is 2 in the morning, and my thoughts jumble up and form a caricature of you.

When I am asleep - my few hours of refuge from the constant letdown of sober consciousness, bombarded with images of you, dredged up from memories I would rather forget.


I wish that was it.
But I see you everywhere else.

Growing up, I watched my mother leave a man she married too young. My father, in his grief, traded tears for beer and a marked ring finger for a string of women. I swore there and then I would never believe in happiness.

Growing up, I watched as my mother’s boyfriend hit my younger brother, careful to leave bruises only where cloth covered up skin. I watched as my mother watched: silently, and never raising a finger. But I was the better person, I think: I was waiting my turn. I swore there and then that I would never trust anyone, not even family.

Growing up, I watched my older siblings stumble through the pitfalls of teen life: they fall out of love as quickly as they fell in, and rebelled against anyone who dared presume authority over their lives. I watched as they sought the attention our parents could not give: from strangers, no less. I swore there and then that I would never need or want of anything from anyone.

I cringe at the sound of your name
(my heart leaps when I hear it)
I am outwardly disgusted with news of you
(my knowledge of you wants refreshing)
I am sick of your inclusion in my thoughts
(my mind is serene only when it’s filled with you)
I hate not knowing if I said something right or wrong
(my exhilaration when you deign to respond)
I lie, because I hope the falsehood comes true
(my lies are for even myself, but never for you)

You have to understand. I know it was my fault, but you need to accept the fact that you chose me. The cynic. You chose the one who would break up with you, and you chose wrong. You believed in huge romantic gestures, the kind you so often see in your Hollywood productions. You believed that love was real, as if it was something you could hold in your hand. And if it was, then I am sorry, but it was crushed in my palm and the smoke breathed in to coat my heart with yet another shell.