Coping Still

And if I had stayed,
I'm not entirely sure where I'd be coming
home to.
If your lap would become rest stop
for my head,
would your fingers travel through my hair
a map made by tangles, the way they did
the first night I kissed you?

Were we really like that once?

And if I had stayed,
would that home be welcoming?
Would I not miss you the way I do now,
except be physically closer?
Would you leave the sound of lasers and
boss levels to stay with me until I slept?

But I didn't stay.
And lately I miss you more than less.
But I don't regret leaving,
because in the process,
I reclaimed myself.

So I'll stay lonely.
And the questions can remain unanswered.
It hurts, but it's truly for the best.

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Shadow Self

This time hurts more
than the first.
You can celebrate that small
victory.

I miss ______
more now than I did then.

I miss my confidence,
and my laughter.
I missed the faces I’d make without
second question.

I miss feel worthwhile
or interesting
or even like somebody
other people want to talk to:
not vent to or hook-up
with.

I miss being a person
rather than a body;
I’m tired of dressing a certain way
to make myself feel
pretty.

I don’t think I am
pretty.

That’s a shot at my ego
that shouldn’t matter as much,
but—

Today a crush
asked about some girl
who’s your typical
definition of American’s
sweetheart mixed with
perfection….

and you knew,
for sure this time,
you’d never be the one.
By “you”, I mean “I”,
I’m still trying not to be sad
about it,
but sometimes

this weather cloys the air
until all I want to do is
sleep
and wake up and you,
yes you,
be there and apologize
that I’m having a bad dream.

Like that would fix everything.
Like you’d try this time to fix
anything.

Most of all,
I miss my sense of self,
my pep talks,
the security in my being
knowing who I was,
who I am
is good and
enough.

I made some people
laugh today.

That is the only thing
I am capable of
that makes me feel like
me.

(I needed to write this out)

There is nothing
left to revive
so please don’t speak
when you pass me.

I don’t even want your hellos.
Not now,
not after all this time.

Not after the month you made
me pariah
leper
thing with a disease called virginity
that wasn’t willing to give it up
to something that would leave her unsatisfied and
disappointed.

You are a boy
in man’s clothing
and overly priced branding.
I am a girl
who knows how to dress
and wears
her bruised ego
like an ascot
and you stand behind her back,
pulling the silk a little tighter.

Don’t you know
that even if you choke me
the silence will still scream?

That your brother and I can have a
conversation
without complaining how bad we got it;
there is no education barrier,
there is no made-up sexual tension
and he accepts that
I know when the material hugs me
a little too
rightly.

I walk every day
in a graveyard of what
we could’ve been.
I walk every day
feeling like there is blackness
crawling over inch of my skin,
letting my brain rattle in my head
just to knock my thoughts out
and let delusions in.

Let another parade me by a girl
who only finds interest in him
when he’s with me.
And I let it be.

I know how to let them use me.
It’s one of the few things I’m still confident
of being good at.
Ace at.
Some view of myself
that I’ve accepted as beautiful
if not by her brokenness.

And this is why I’m pissed,
because there never was any friendship,
there was some false allusion of respect
and there was the constant reminder of him
treating me like shit
hoping I’d like it,
even though I never deserved it.
And I still don’t deserve it,
even as I’m sitting here crying about it.

You pulled your mouth away
and slid the knife in.

Wonder why my blood is rusted
ignoring my back
where the tip of a blade is shoved
and a heart is ruptured.

11/12

I never made my body
your Atlantis.
You kept swimming in the deep
hoping to entreat upon my virginity
like it was lost kingdom,
and it was your duty as a geologist
to reveal it to the world.

I have shed too much salt water over you.
I have shaken like tremors in the blue
because of the way you looked at her.
I let my insecurities twist around me like
seaweed
because I was not the girl who
gave over herself to you
in the backseat
of your rundown chariot.

You name your cars and boards
after a girl,
because they are the only thing you can
ride.

Listen,
I knew we’d never work.
I knew I was too ambitious and
noncompliant to be worth
any amount of your time,
but when I walked out to see
you kiss her in the parking lot,
it still hurt.

I become Atlantis overthrown when
I let the blood boil within me.
I shouldn’t drive when I’m angry.
And though I sped away,
it doesn’t mean I didn’t cry.

This is the last one,
with your name between the lines.
Looking back on it,
it was summer,
and you remain just a waste
of my time.

The Crying Your Body Rejects

Spoiler: in that last post…I lied

I’m lying in bed,
sick to my stomach,
13 days too early,
and right now,
the one thing I hate
the most
is not him,
but once again,
you.
And the one person
I need the most
but died a year ago
is also
you.

I have cried more today
over all sorts of things,
but it’s the image of you
that makes me nauseous.
It’s repeating the mantra:
We are dead
We are dead
We are dead

over an empty coffin
that still haunts—

I closed my eyes and saw your closed mouth smile again.

God,
why do you never take the right men?

Who are you now?

Who are you now?

Because I’m pretty sure I hate you.
Strongly, strong, strongly dislike you
in the very least.

Because right now,
I’m falling to pieces.
And it’s not getting easier.
And time doesn’t heal (any)everything.

And I’ve tried forgiveness,
it quickly gets replaced with bitterness.
Yes,
your leaving was catalyst.

And maybe I didn’t deserve answers then,
but I am past due for your rational reasons
why you left
or felt you had to,
why you waited until I
confessed my sins and fears,
before fleeing,
keeping them all buried inside your chest.

I never treasured you,
but the smiles that you gave me,
the ones that stayed on my face as I fell
asleep
in love
both are now synonyms,
because at least sleeping dogs don’t lie.

But you,
bitch,
your bark never matched
the bite you left,
gaping in my side;
at least you could’ve stayed and
enjoyed my bleeding out.

Let’s make one thing clear:
that I am not in love with who you are
but rather who you were,
or should I now say what?
I know that I love ghosts of
summer’s past,
and I’m pretty sure
your brow doesn’t furrow the way it used to.

I’m sure you sit behind a desk,
attend a class,
and know your life holds far more stress
than I ever could have given you.

But I loved you, babe.
Damn, did I love you,

And damn me,
but I refuse to let that love live forever,
when my future does not include
past summers,
and dead lovers
with no pretty words to
warm me or my bed
at 3AM each night.