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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
I've been working on this poem for about a year and a half. It's meant for spoken word. It started out as my thoughts thrown onto paper in jumbled metaphors, but it's molded itself into a meaningful poem about the loss of a lover whom you changed for, gave everything you had for, and ultimately would have died for.

Submitted: May 10, 2017

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Submitted: May 10, 2017



You were like a book. I memorized your table of contents and read you over and over again, hoping to find an error. We are all unfinished. We all need editing. We're all here, waiting to be read by someone and hoping that they'll tell us that we make sense. You didn't always make sense, but your imperfections were the things I loved the most. They're the small things I still remember even after all this time apart.


My hands like to write poetry, but I hide behind my twisted metaphors. My hands like to write poetry, but when I try to write about loving you, my hand cramps and it reminds me of how painful your love was. It reminds me that love is pathetic, but loving you was the last thing that I felt good at.


How did I get these scars? I ripped you out of my smile and now, every time I smile, I feel guilty. I feel wrong. You held the remote control to my smile and all of my emotions. We only smiled together and now when I smile with someone else, it feels like a crime.


I tried to be good for you. I changed myself in so many ways to be better for you. I shoved my frail body into a mold to fit your liking. I treated you the best way I knew how, but it shattered these windows I have for eyes and dug the shards of glass into my side. I was left alone to bleed out all of the crippled reasons why you deserve another chance. --- I am weak.


I dipped my hands into the only forever I'd ever known. I brushed my fingertips over your infinities so I could treat you the best way I knew how. Like you were the last molecule of oxygen left in this gas chamber home where I’m living without you. I can't breathe without you. I'm suffocating.


I tried to be good for you, but the sadness inside of me clawed its way out of my heart, into my throat then out of my mouth. It quivered off the end of my tongue in self-depreciating vibrations and off the ends of my fingertips like lightning onto my skin. It burned, but it felt like you.


Every morning that autumn after we broke up, I walked out onto my front porch. My thoughts were so loud, I couldn't sleep for days. I'd sit on the front porch step, thinking, trying to find the logic in cutting off the important parts of myself and putting them inside of a hand that shakes from alcohol and trembles from adderall, then crumbles me away like the sidewalk in a ghost town for there is NOTHING rational about love.


Your love was different. It was something of it's own. Your love stuttered when it was nervous and it was clumsy. It left cigarette ashes in my car and the scent of alcohol on my clothes. I kissed you like your lips were my only safe haven. I held you like we were the only people in the world. I loved you like I’ve loved no other, but. ---


I feel like a sinner, drenched in loneliness. I felt like I was just a temporary solution to your problems, but still I held your hand like it was the only one I'd ever seen. I was pinned to you as you so easily waltzed away from me. You had vodka in your walk and I got wasted off your footsteps.


The way you made me feel felt like energy, coursing through my veins at light speed. You drink yesterday from a shot glass, chase it down with a cup of right now and sacrifice your every tomorrow in vomit, dizzy spells and cigarettes.


You had a lazy sunset resting on your shoulders. I can still visualize the crystal blue colour in your eyes that pierced my heart. I wish I could have put something sweet in all of the blank spaces in your soul and filled in the broken places in your lips so I could the bitterness out of them.


I pause for a second when I hear your name. Sometimes, I think I see you in the most improbable places. I can’t explain the pain in my chest when I think about you. I miss you. I miss your touch. When you touched me, I felt young again. My heart played hop-skotch inside my chest, using my ribs for monkey bars when you looked at me.


Our last weeks were filled with "You know you can talk to me" and "I'm here for you." But I had a closet full of skeletons that I never let you see. I was scared if you ever found them, you'd grind up all the old bones into powder, get high off the fault lines and drunk on my marrow.


I'll always have an aching part of my heart that's dedicated to you, and I can’t help but wonder if you think of me from time to time. But now, all of the memories we created together are being recreated with her.


There's an envelope of butterflies that I felt in my stomach the first time I met you. I collected them after you smiled and hugged me at the bus stop. I think most of them are still alive, but I guess they belong to her now too.

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