from the boy who knows very little about me.
Knowing your vices,
but agreeing to disagree;
boy, if he knew,
he would not be happy with me.
I wanted to thread happiness,
like a product freshly knit,
the holes allowing in a little bit of wind,
but still we wear it for fashion.
Small, needle-made flaws,
there is beauty within.
If I splayed my fingers across your chest,
would your heartbeat ripple,
or would it sputter:
Would you grasp my wrists and pull me from your frame,
thinking obscenities rather than speaking a name
which in itself asks for Another’s strength…
am broken and bruised
have made myself
my own victim
too much on your validation
as an indication
of my person-
am ashamed of my own
the names he is calling me
are the ones we allowed to shape a nation,
of women who have fallen at the hands of men
from whom they once wanted fingertips to leave
on the paper that was their skin;
a book marked by fingerprinted stains,
scratches and rash actions
both thick and thin.
He bites your lip,
you let him in.
He stares into your eyes,
you let him win.
All because you thought,
to your love.
To your escape, rather
to the madhouse that has become your brain;
fun adventures never happen to the sane,
this does not make you less bitter.
You hope to wipe the smile,
the satisfaction off his face.
Lips you longed to taste,
with hands squeezing your waist
until he took your soul right out of its frame,
to sign it with his name,
like an autographed memory,
in permanent Sharpie,
you can’t erase.
Though he walks away:
You wanted to feel happy again;
for whose sake?
He made you smile without realizing:
in the wake of another
lover who’s moved on without you.
In a friend/brother who could live without you.
Trying to rely on another,
who could only doubt you.
Trying to look this adorable boy in the eye,
were you crushing on him,
or were you searching for redemption?