The strawberry milk boy. The lights are on but nobody is home kind of boy. The lost boy. There's something about his hands and how ever since that first spark you haven't stopped feeling the burning sensation on your thighs. Something about how every time you're rocking your body over his you want to whisper about loving him but never quite having the gumption. Something about knowing that it never lasts. Something about the broken glass on the kitchen floor and the way you always walk through it without shoes on. Something about knowing you'll get hurt and knowing it shouldn't be like this. Something about needing more. Something about always being the one to say sorry anyway. Something about the end.

I am sitting in my bedroom on a fresh summer morning, and I am thinking about you.
I am sitting in my bedroom on a fresh summer morning, and I am thinking about how gentle your hands are when they run themselves over the steep curves of my body.
I am sitting in my bedroom on a fresh, and somewhat rainy, summer morning, and I am thinking about the burn I got my on thumb last night when I was making a hot chocolate, and I am thinking about how it doesn't hurt. Your hands are electric, your mouth sparks fires in-between my thighs and they burn and burn and burn, but they never hurt.
I am sitting in my bedroom, and it's a rainy summer afternoon with a cool breeze and I can hear the trains passing on the track nearby and I am thinking about you and all the ways we could be great. And how, for the first time in my life, I don't mind being burnt if it means I get to share these fires with you.

One. No matter how much you scrub at yourself in the shower, you will never wash the feeling of his hands from your skin. You will learn to be okay.
Two. His lips tasted like strawberries and you'll never be able to eat them again without tasting something sour.
Three. Getting under someone else won't fix your problems, but it will help you forget.
Four. Hearing her name will spark a fire so intense in your chest that you'll think all of the flowers have been burnt, but I promise you they will grow back.
Four. It will pass.
Five. He'll never get tired of the way your body feels underneath his.
Six. Let him miss you.
Seven. Let him be angry that he lost you.
Eight. Let him hurt.
Nine. Burn his t-shirt. Burn his boxers. Burn the love notes. Burn everything and let the ashes be the last of him.
Ten. He'll get bored of her too. Don't let him crawl back to your bed.
Eleven. You'll let his empty coffee cup fall to the floor and you'll let it smash and then you'll cry as you pick up the pieces and you'll write a dumb poem about how your heart was his mug and he let it smash and then you will delete it and then you will heal. It will be okay. You will make it.
Twelve. Your first heartbreak will never prepare you for your second love.

Hey baby girl, I love you. I love you but stop. Stop acting like you've seen the world when everything you've experienced has been through rose tinted glasses. You know they're gonna smash one day. They're gonna smash and you're gonna be hit with reality but hey, hey pretty baby, I'll still love you. Hey sweets, hey sugar, hey spice. I know your glasses broke but you don't need to smash those bottles anymore. I'll still love you when the lights go out. I love your lips in Koko K and your high necks and your slender frame. Hey pretty baby, remember that dress your Mumma once described as a 'second skin'? Hey, remember the night we drove and drove and drove and stopped at sunrise? Remember the sound of the ocean inside your head? Remember the birds and the trees and the sand and the children screaming and the happy times? Remember asking for my number? Remember saying goodbye? Remember leaning in for the first kiss? Remember the daisies? Remember the shooting stars and the golden mornings? Remember? Hey pretty baby, it's okay if you don't want to remember anymore. I'm still sorry your glasses broke.

Today, I looked in the mirror and I noticed that my left collarbone pokes out more than my right. I noticed that one of my eyes is a deeper green that the other, and that one of my arms is just a smidgen longer. In the garden, I noticed that no two roses have the same amount of petals, no two blades of grass are the same height and no two trees have the same number of leaves. See, it got me thinking about you and I. It got me thinking about how neither of us said "I love you more." We rarely said "I love you too." It was always just "I love you." And it got me thinking that if no two roses, if no two trees, if no two arms on the same human body are the same, then maybe my "I love you" was different to yours. I know that when I told you I loved you, I meant I loved you. I loved every part of you, every nook and every cranny of your body, every inch of your mind and every skeleton in your wardrobe. ****, there are so many skeletons. And maybe when you said "I love you" to me, you only meant that you loved the better sides of me. The smiles and the funny hair colours and the softer parts, or the parts that turned you on and touched your whole body until you were shaking underneath me. The parts of me that are whole. Maybe you didn't love my empty spaces. And maybe love is always different, maybe you'll never love me the way I loved you but maybe it's too ******* late for you to try.

This is your knife, and this is my heart.
This is my love, and this is how you show me that it is never enough.
These are my wounds, these are my bandages, and this is your salt.
Choose wisely.
This is my favourite song, and these are all the ways to make it yours.
This is my favourite author, and this is how you fall in love with their words.
These are my walls, and this is how you tear them down.
This is my favourite film, and this is when to kiss me without making me miss my favourite part.
This is the town inside of my head, and this is your house.
This is the key, and this is how you lose it without thinking twice.
This is the rain cloud that follows me around, and this is the umbrella I have been searching for.
This is the bottle you smashed, and these are the cuts I got from cleaning the mess.
This is your cigarette ****, and this the fire it started.
There was my heart, and there are the remains.
There you are, and there is your knife.

I woke up in a strange bed this morning. I woke up in a bed that belongs to someone else, a bed with a pillowcase that doesn't match the duvet and a bed that doesn't feel like home. I woke up in a strange bed, but the bed doesn't belong to a stranger. The bed belongs to a past lover. Her hair colour doesn't match her eyebrows, it's blue and her eyebrows are brown, but she feels like home. She holds my hand and it's like I'm holding onto an angel. She drives us around in her old beat up car and it feels like I'm finally free. She brushes her lips against mine and it feels natural, it feels good. Maybe, just maybe, this is what I deserve. It won't be long until her bed feels like home. It won't be long until you're gone.