You wanted to hear a story?
How about ours?
The one from the past five years.
The boy that knew nothing about love.
The girl who thought
she could love him.
The boy who picked up poetry for you.
The girl who didn’t
read his eyes
as much as
he did for hers.
The boy who knew nothing about love,
he still knows nothing about it.
Not a thing.
He would rather grip your thighs
over holding your hands.
She would rather cry while he yells,
blinding rage; he had flaws.
Why didn’t she walk?
Why did she stay?
Why didn’t he stop?
Why did he feel like it was okay?
Sometimes we do stupid shit
when you capture this thing
everybody calls love–
He tortures
because you
changed.
She thought he could
be better, he could
understand how
much pain she’s going
through, but he
never did.
Baby, people aren’t flowers.
We don’t have petals,
but we still ripped.
Baby, people aren’t leaves.
We don’t belong on trees,
but we still fell.
Baby, people aren’t words.
We expected to be a book,
but we this is still the end.
There’s no happy ending,
not for him.
not for her.
Don’t call me anymore, he’d say.
Why do you always threaten
to leave, she’d ask while crying.
Because I don’t know how to love anyone, people aren’t true and neither am I. I loved to see beauty, but I couldn’t handle it when it leaves. I loved to be with you, but one mistake made trust look crooked. I loved to hold you, but the lust was the worst.
Because she never learned to walk away from him, his lips made from unbreakable diamonds, his words a sweet lie, a dark poem made from bleeding hearts, his hands, her favorite kind of poetry; the flesh speaks, but his soul is on fire. She never could tell if it was for who she was, or which body part she had to give up.
We thought we knew love,
but love knew us.
We thought we had a nice reflection,
but the mirrors own us.
We thought we knew better,
but it only made our eyes wetter.
We thought we could be forever,
but it always ends this way.
I’m sorry, I miss you.
I’m sorry, I love you.
I’m sorry, I hate you.
I’m sorry, can I get a raincheck?
I’m sorry, I’m seeing someone better.
I’m sorry, he’s not here like you are.
I’m sorry, but I only fucked you
over because you let me.
I’m sorry about our lovely story.
Let’s listen to some more
Bryson Tiller.
Maybe it’ll make us feel better.
snowghoul
kaledo-art
stormborns
discoholicmusic
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline
baratheonpilled
