You seem cold.

I’ve been this way for years.

You’re too young to say that.

I grow faster than most people expect.

You seem tragic.

I was born with it in my veins.

You’re awfully pessimistic.

I’m never disappointed this way.

You have scars on your wrist.

I used to be sad.

You’re not anymore?

I’m not as bad as before.

You look at him like he put the stars in the sky.

I believe he’s magic.

You’re more innocent than you let on.

I have to hold onto something.

You don’t have to pretend to be strong.

I won’t be pretending one day.

Two Poems About One Loss

(1)

I smoke too much,

And now my head hurts when I walk,

But maybe it’s not the cigarettes.

Perhaps it’s the echo of the lies you told

Pounding in my head.

 

I drink too much,

And now my eyes burn when I look outside,

But maybe it’s not the booze.

Perhaps it’s the fear of seeing you with her

That made me wish to go blind.

 

I took too many pills,

And now I can’t find my bed,

But maybe it’s not the drugs.

Perhaps it’s the home where we lied

Makes me loose my mind.

(2)

You were everything I needed,

And now you’re not mine,

I wanted to come see you,

But all I’d do is cry.

Your ginger hair,

And the guitar you play,

Has made a home in my mind,

I can no longer stay.

So one day I’ll leave,

To where you can not go,

Please do not follow me,

You can not stoop that low.

I will write you a note,

Tell you that I have gone,

Do not cry for me,

During dusk or through the dawn.

Moments

I love you in a

Strange way.

Because I know I don’t want

A future with you.

But I want to share

This with you.

When I am alone in bed at

Night I crave your touch.

When I get coffee in the morning

I want your conversation.

When I work

I wish you would visit.

I crave moments with you.

Not a life.

Mirror: Part Four

We finished our coffee and we kissed and his hands found their way to my waist, then my stomach, then my breasts. I inhaled sharply.

“Is this okay?” He asked gently. I nodded in response.

“I don’t want to push you.” I smiled and kissed him again. He lifted me up and I wrapped my legs around his waist, as he carried me up the stairs. He laid me on the bed and straightened himself to take his shirt off, then hovered back over my body. He peeled his large shirt over my head and kissed my neck, and down my body. He was so gentle and patient. He kissed between my thighs and my legs opened for his like a book. I gasped and I ran my fingers through his hair. When his face returned to mine I felt down his body, he was so warm in contrast to my hands. I fumbled with his belt for so long I felt like crying. I’m not sure why, I get that that feeling a lot though. He kissed my forehead and laughed.

“It’s okay.” And he helped undress himself. When I felt him inside me again it all felt new, but it was still beautiful, we breathed deeply together, I pushed against him to try and place myself on top. He turned and held my hips so we never even had to separate our bodies, but I got up so I could face away from him. I was slower than he normally liked but I was still getting my rhythm back and I knew he understood, when I opened my eyes I found myself facing the mirror once again. I was the same girl I was that morning but I looked more alive, and it looked like I was dancing.

I miss the dancing.

Mirror: Part Three

He finished making the coffee, and handed me a cup. He told me about his work and his schooling and his family and mine. How could I have missed out on so much life? He told me he was just glad to see me out of bed again, and I recalled a time where we would go out for breakfast and laugh and feel and everything felt right. But things were different then, of course I miss it too, of course if I had a say in how my mind worked, I would tell it to stop feeling sorry for itself but that doesn’t seem to work. He placed his mug beside me and used both of his hands to cup my face. I looked into his eyes and just prayed he saw something more than I did when I was looking into the mirror earlier.

“You are so beautiful.” He said as he pressed his lips to mine. I kissed him back deeply, but not too deeply. The last time he commented on how passionately I kissed him, it was because I was going to kill myself later that evening. It would be rude to remind him of that today.

What It’s Not

Love isn’t always someone gently kissing you at the end of the night.

Love isn’t always understanding why he hurt you so terribly.

Love isn’t always him begging on his knees for forgiveness.

But love is not crying yourself to sleep over a boy who only calls you at two in the morning after he has drowned his pain in a bottle.