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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
I don't think this is really a poem.

Submitted: March 11, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 11, 2012






I know now that I fell harder than you deserved

A slice of my time in this playground lifestyle

Thousand mile rat race we’re both so entangled in.

Your card had a bit more detail than that girl who

Never knew my last name, but if I’m honest with myself…

You wouldn’t have asked for it if I hadn’t offered.

My brain is full of orange and yellow blocks

And the sound of a vacuum roaring over Guns and Roses

White-noised out the truth of it all for way too long.

You held my hand once because I needed a hand to hold

But fuck…it was the hand that you saw that night…

Not the girl dressed in backstage blacks with mascara

Running tracks down her slackened, desperate face.

Your effervescence hooked me and the trip you took me on

Was less like being in the Tardis and more like having

Fumes blur the lines betwixt what was real and what I wanted to be.

I’m so TIRED….I could bitch and whine and complain

That you take me for granted…but god I’ve made it easy for you.

I’ve deluded myself into thinking thoughts I shouldn’t have thook

I’m in a Dr. Seuss book and the games you’ve gamed

Haven’t been blamed on you nearly enough…

Ignore the crush- I have. And instead…take a good long

LOOK at me…and then cut it the fuck out.

Take the fishhook out of my swollen cheek

Stop leaking words to me, because you know they won’t seep.

Because you know how much you mean to me.

Because you know I’m curled round your long index finger

Remember today, fucker? Remember how we lost you?

Remember how you didn’t answer when I called, and then came inside

With something in your eyes we both know you could have…

Explained? Remember me texting you asking if you were alright?

You looked at your phone…

….Remember not answering?

….God I could go on.

….This isn’t even a poem.

….This is me running out of words

….Out of feelings

….Out of time

….And realizing

That you might not be worth making into poetry.

Maybe never were.

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