I wrote poems about you before I knew anyone like you even existed
Lipstick stained cigarettes and old bookshops will remind you of me even if you can’t remember what you’re remembering.
I’m tired of empty apologies,
Of drunken phone calls,
I’m tired of these tired words,
That mean nothing to you.
I’m tired of trying for you over and over,
I’m tired of you acting like a stranger,
I’m tired of your jealousy,
The pathetic way you contradict yourself.
I’m tired of staring at your name in my contact book,
Not having the heart of throw away your number,
I’m tired of playing our memories over in my mind,
I’m tired of crying myself to sleep because the loneliness is overwhelming,
I’m tired of writing about you,
But I can’t get you out of my head any other way.
I hope you cry for me one day,
The way I cried for you.
She will cry,
She will cry over you like there is no tomorrow,
She will cry until her throat is raw,
And until her hair is a mess.
Her screams will echo through the walls,
And there will be nothing beautiful about it.
She will tear out the pages of her notebook that she dedicated to you,
And swear that your name will never again appear on the crisp pages that are so important to her,
But two days later the words won’t come,
And she’ll find herself sprawling your name over and over until the ink blurs and merges with her tears.
She will curse you,
And curse herself,
And curse the skies for everything,
And for nothing.
There will be days when the sun shines,
But all she can see is rain and clouds,
And days when she won’t see anything at all.
She will love you even though her heart is breaking,
Because she gave you a part of herself,
That you refuse to return.
But know this,
She will also learn to forget you.
So when she walks by you in two months time,
Laughing and smiling without a care in the world,
You will wonder how she slipped through your fingers,
And she won’t care.
Thank you for all the kind words, they’ll last a lifetime. I know you’re hurting now but unlike the words you spoke the hurt will fade. I’m sorry your bed is stained by the tears I caused. I’m sorry your passenger seat is covered in my cigarette ashes. I’m sorry your pillow was left with my lipstick marks. I’m sorry every girl who hurts you will remind you of me. I’m sorry I left you with so many pieces of me I’ll never truly be absent.
But run yourself a hot bath, pour yourself a glass of wine, shed a couple tears, smoke a few cigarettes, listen to some sad songs, and keep the knives away. Soon the wounds will heal and you’ll forget the colour of my eyes and the songs will no longer seem like they were written about me. Soon you’ll stop searching for me in the crowded streets. You won’t think of your hands in my hair, or my fingers interlocked with yours. You’ll erase my laughter from your memory and your favourite T-shirt will lose my scent and you’ll be whole without me around.
I never loved you,
I was just cold,
And you lit yourself on fire,
To keep me warm.
But now you’re burning out,
Stuck praying for a spark,
That I could never provide.
You offered me your world.
But now you’re dim,
Now you’re empty.
And I’m gone.
I could fucking kill him.
I could gently wrap my hands around his neck and watch the life drain from his face.
I could take his pillow from beneath my head and turn to his sleeping frame beside me late morning and press it to his face, smothering him until his body goes limp.
I could slip something in his drink the next time we go out.
I could fucking kill myself.
I could take a bath at his house, and take one of his over used razors to my wrists.
I could tie a noose tightly around my neck attached to his bedroom ceiling while he’s busying sleeping until noon.
I could make the rest of his thoughts revolve around me,
But what a powerful thought to know I could.
He didn’t make me feel loved,
But he made me feel something,
And that’s more than anyone’s given me in months