When I fell in love with you at 17,
my heart was pounding and I was alive again.
My soul knew before I did,
it knew I had to love you.
It knew you would change me.
I knew you would change me,
And it wasn’t just any kind of change.
It wasn’t just my personality
or how I view what true love was.
It was my heart never being broken enough,
so you tore it worse than any girl that I’ve ever kissed and you did it with that smile.
It’s the spaces in between my fingers forever bookmarked by yours, and I’ll revisit every moment we held hands, I’ll always revisit.
It’s the cracking inside of my chest like the Fourth of July didn’t do your lips justice because they blew more than those midnight skies and they knew how to fix everything that’s ever been broken, but still I tried.
It’s not just the change, but who I would become. It’s who I am, it’s who you made.
I won’t watch tv shows with people anymore because it doesn’t feel right not waiting for you.
I won’t walk beaches with my future lovers because I hate seeing a sunset that we once shared and I know it’s shallow, but that’s how it is and that’s how it will stay.
I won’t write them my love letters and tell them how much they mean to me, I won’t. It’s not the same, I wrote my best notes when I fell in love with someone that I called my friend.
When I fell in love at 17,
I knew I would die.
And I did.
Inside of your eyes that dwell in my dreams,
I’ve felt this way before,
the sweat pouring from your skin
and into your hands,
the nightmares always taste like regret.
Inside of your palms that held my heart,
I’ve felt this way before,
the anxiety from not looking good enough
before you talked to someone for
the first time,
the first conversation always feel like home.
Inside of your smile that held happiness,
I’ve felt this way before,
the tears leaving your eyelids and past
your cheeks and down near the leaves,
the first argument always feels like pain..
Inside of your I love you,
I fell deeper and deeper every day,
the angle of your lips,
to the way you said hi,
I think I’ve died before
and it felt something like this.
When I fell in love with this person,
nothing would be the same.
My thoughts forever a poet’s tongue.
My kisses always a minute late.
My memory recognizing only small details
and never the bigger picture.
My mind is fragmented with
things that I could have done,
but never did.
My heart will never be mine again,
always in your chest trying
to find its way back.
My heart will want to feel loved,
will want to feel needed,
will need to feel wanted,
but it’ll never beat the same.
And I know I did some things to hurt you,
and I know I said some things to kill you,
and I know I made you feel special,
and I know I made you out to be more,
and I know you’ll never read poetry the same,
and I know you’ll never kiss the same,
and I know you’ll never love the same,
because I made sure that you were broken,
because I made sure that you felt loved,
because I made sure that you felt hated,
because I made sure that you felt whole.
Those are some words that you should know.
By heart. By soul. By mine. By you.
And I know you’ve changed.
Silly shirts turning into dresses.
Never caring about make-up,
you’re now foundations.
Always replying,
but you’re now speechless
and wordless.
You used to be so kind,
but now you’re mean like me.
You used to love the prettier things,
but now you see the brutality in art.
You still read the words like it’s yours,
but just know, I want them all back.
Each word I left inside of your throat,
each whisper and scream in your ears,
each love crack on your tiny heart,
every I love you said past 2 am
because those thunderstorms
kept you up with my lightning,
each loveless lustful kiss,
each innocent baby kiss,
every thought you’ve had of me,
every time you miss me,
I want them all back.
The love letters crying on your bedroom floor..
The dusted poems drying in your sad tears.
The stress of being free,
wait, you can keep that.
I’m not free. Not yet.
I’m not free. Not from you.
I’m not free. Not from love.
I’m not free. Not from us.
I’m not free. Not from myself.
And I know I always told you that you’re like the sun and how you made me feel like it was okay to hurt you, like it was okay to be me, but you are mistaken. You should have left when you had the chance, but you put me through heaven just to leave me in hell. You have issues if you think this is over, this is far from over.
You’re going to read through every poem,
because God knows, you love to read.
You’ll read and you’ll wonder if it’s about you.
You never understood poetry.
You never understood me.
Because if you did,
if you did,
maybe, you
wouldn’t let them dust.
Because if you did,
if you did,
maybe, this
wouldn’t be so angry.
I know I’ve been wrong,
who hasn’t?
But you see, not only do you have the sweet parts of me, but you also have the cruel parts of me. The parts I hate and love about myself all smelted into your memories and I can’t take them all back, but if I could, if I could.
You’ll be drained dry.
Nothing to cry about.
Nothing to worry about.
Nothing to love.
Nothing to hate.
Baby, you don’t need to cry anymore.
Because when I fell in love with you at 17,
I finally understood what it means
to love someone for more than
what their gripped thighs have to offer.
I finally understood what it means
to hate someone for how they have been
and what they could never be.
I finally understood what it means
to kiss a girl and still be destroyed
by such innocence, because people
do these things, they take and take,
while destroying themselves
in the process of gluttony.
I finally understood what it means
to love someone for more than
what their lips have to say.
I finally understood what it means
to be alone.
I know I can call,
and you’ll pick up asap,
but I fucking won’t
give you that benefit.
Or myself…
I know I can text,
and you’ll answer right away,
but I won’t give you that feeling.
That I miss you.
That I still love you.
That I fucking want you.
That I fucking need you.
That I can’t do this without you.
That I can’t change for myself.
I will never give you that satisfaction.
You can grin with the new boy,
I hope it all works out.
Because in the end,
when it all comes down
and the night smokes its last cigarette
and the morning kiss its last goodbye;
somewhere in my dreams and empty memories, it’ll just be you and me again.
And I hate it.
I hate it so much,
I hate that I love you this much.
So read the poems.
Burn them,
I don’t care.
This is all you left for me.
This is all we have left.
The poetry left by you.
The poetry left by her.
prguitarman
vaporwave
titsay
blakekathryn
annaxmalina
