And instead of food, I fill my empty stomach with memories of you:
There are pieces of the woman I thought I’d be all over this apartment.
I wish I could give you some saintly, gold-hearted reason for why I’m actually writing this post, like maybe I thought it would fix your life or open your eyes, or give you some other bullshit things to think about other than your dwindling bank account and bleaker future. But, honestly, I’m writing this because I’m bored as Hell and as pissed as the Devil that lives in it. I know you’re already expecting me to tell you that this whole thing is about a guy, but you’d be wrong, because I’m actually going to refer to him as a boy. After all, if it thinks like a child, plays like a child, and leaves it’s freshly mangled toys strewn across the playground like a child, I think it’s safe to refer to it as a child. If you’ve actually read this far into this post, I know you’re curious about the fuckboy that screwed me over. “He really got her good,” you’re thinking, with a half-witted smirk on your face. But you’re also thinking about that one that fucked you over too, aren’t you? You know, the one that your friends can’t talk about without rolling their eyes and scrunching their noses. To be honest though, it’s not even just one boy that I’m referring to- it’s the whole lot of them- it’s what they all seem to stand for once you get past the well-groomed, country club, chivalry encrusted exterior. Maybe you’ll tell me it’s not fair to lump them all into one frat-tank-wearing, Bud-Light-chugging, douche-faced group, but if that’s how you feel, then this post isn’t for girls like you. This post is for the girls that have tasted his alcohol laced breath and shitfaced ego firsthand and still couldn’t rid his stench from their minds. This is for the girls who were pretty enough to make him cum, but not enough to make him stay. He’s not worth the 3 minutes you took to read this post, let alone the 5 years you’ve let him live in your head.
Let me play with your words, string them up like lights from the ceiling. Connect the vowels like the freckles on your jawline. Maybe I’ll finish the ends of all those sentences you left drift away, tie them together until they become the shape of a noose. Maybe they’ll leave me hanging like the story you started and never had the heart to finish. Maybe next time I won’t let myself be a book for a boy that is my library.
When your time finally came, there was no moment of holy knowing. There was just your heart and the way it drummed softly against your chest. There was just your shallow breath, and the way it leaked from between your lips. There was just your empty hand curled around itself, holding on to so much, and so little. There was just time, and the way it moved so achingly slow. Just time, and the way it moved so incredibly fast.
Check out Poetryatmost.tumblr.com for more updates and quote posts/poems!
Drunk you throws his sloppy kisses in her direction and thinks that she might catch them.
Drunk you shrugs when she doesn’t, figures I’ll be more grateful.
Drunk you texts and wants to know where I am, has decided that silver, or bronze, will be enough for tonight.
Drunk you has forgotten that
Sober me was serious when she said goodbye.
I told you about how sometimes instead of running away from
I ran beside them
so I could tell myself I wasn’t alone.
I told you about the way
the leaves near my house seemed
to fall all year round,
how the walls in my room were always so cold and how I missed myself more than I could ever miss you.
She will emerge from the fray,
To rubies the shape
Or she won’t emerge
collect in my throat
kicking to come out.
I’m yelling at us
for the way we hooked
our souls together
and drove different directions.
I’m yelling at us
for becoming the same song
and then falling out of rhythm.
You loved something like the marrow in your bones,
viciously and without restraint.
You smiled as it held your hand in its own and your starving heart between it’s teeth.