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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Glow

Body to become a lantern,
to once again be that glowing thing,
that glowing girl again.
Body of a girl
with the sun under her skin.
Body of a fire sign,
flames rekindling.

Body holding heart
like a lifeline,
not putting pen to paper
to mimic razor on skin,
not like with him.

Body with a heart
that still loves you
currently,
possibly eternally,
some way,
somehow,
hopefully never hatefully.

Body with eyes like waterfalls,
breathtaking and perpetually
cascading.
Body with a writhing soul
that still cries for you.

Body with arms that
become stuck hinges,
with a mouth
that has no target
for kisses.
Body of a girl who
misses
you—

Body of a girl
who didn’t break,
who won’t break,
who’s realizing
with both head
and heart,
when you didn’t fight
to keep her,
when you changed your
stupid social media statuses
the same day.

Body, home to flickering candle,
to healing warrior,
to resting phoenix.
Body of a girl,
who stopped giving,
when all you did was take.

Exits with No Shortcuts

It will always be easier
to blame emotions
than to blame you.

It will always be easier to
hate me
than to hear me out.

That’s okay.
I’m glad at the progress I’ve made.
At the person I am,
happy,
and trying to love myself better
than I did then.

I didn’t really like myself,
then.

It will always be easier to say:
“It ended”
than there are days
where I can’t shake the
memories of
you loving me
well.

Not well “enough”
or barely,
but actually holding me in my fragility
and accepting me,
wholly.

It will always be easier
to blame the bad parts,
the last months,
than to blame you.

It will always be easy
to wish you well,
but,
if I’m being honest,
it still stings to say
“Goodbye”.

Today, I don’t want to write about you

or us
or what was,
and I think that might be progress.
I think the fact that I never wanted to slander
only wanted to tell my truth
and keeping pushing,
only wanted to heal,
so I could be okay
with what this life means for me now,
I think that’s a sign of getting over you.

Learning life still goes on,
life still has much to offer,
and it has nothing to do with you.

The hardest part.

The hardest part,

the hardest part,

is knowing that I still 

love you, that I 

still miss you,

that I could’ve changed it,

forgotten my pride and my worth

in a minute,

and knowing how much you 

you loved me,

said you loved me,

and you will be able to move on,

possibly tonight,

while in six months,

I’ll still love you.

I’m scared that I will

always, always love you.

Unearthed

Our eyes meet
and suddenly we are an excavation sight.
I’m pulling you out from my smile
and you’re scrubbing me out from under your nails.
We are laid bare,
fossilized laughter
and tear stains.

They find an urn of us
mixed with my childhood memories
and your grandfather’s ashes.
It says:
“Here lies
vitality,
promises,
stone warriors who didn’t dare budge,
who couldn’t for the life of them
imagine simply leaving someone.
Who had the courtesy to be cold to the touch.”

They’re dusting off your scar now;
brush strokes like my finger tracing the back
of your hand.
Like security in something;
love in someone,
even if it’s just at a personal level,
even if you just adore their smile.
Even if your heart stops when you see them months later and no words bubble to the surface,
but you’re now drinking coffee and they’re avoiding your eyes.
They’re just trying to get by
and accepting the change of seasons.
You’re no longer asking for reasons
to why they didn’t stay.

And once again they walk away.
And things could never be the same.
Your best friend is mad because of all the pain
you went through,
but you’re not “her” anymore.
And he doesn’t say goodbye before he leaves the store and it’s like you never happened even two summers ago.

They found the wreck of us, kid.
Picked it up and held it in their palms
as gently as if it they could break it further.
They heard all the words we said at night,
saw all our shared smiles.
They held back from brushing the tears off my face when I cried.
They saw the way two hearts beat in sync, but one still had to break,
because taking that leap, wouldn’t have guaranteed for an easy landing.
They saw what was,
compared to what is,
broke the bubble of what
could have been
and decided to bury us,
give my mind some rest,
once more.

Fog

I’m sorry
you didn’t wait for the rain
this time.

I hope her hair falls just as easily through
your fingers and that she pulls away
and means it.

I hope you find it in your heart
to prepare a room for her.

I hope you were
wrapped up in fog
and her
and that she tasted like the earth
and some sort of
necessary rebirth.

I’m sorry
you didn’t wait for the rain
this time.

But then again,
I wasn’t in your life long enough
for you to think
you ever needed to be
cleansed
from me.