I left my favorite pair of underwear at your house. I know your mother hates me, can I come pick them up?
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It’s been almost a month and I still miss you like a fucking limb.
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I didn’t know my bones could ache until I met you.
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You know, a week before we broke up, do you remember? I had bought a book of poetry. You asked why I didn’t read something more interesting and I could feel my insides splinter.
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You said poetry was all lies dressed up to sound pretty. When I look at you these days, I want to ask if sadness sounds pretty to you too.
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It’s 3 a.m. and this alcohol tastes like you.
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I saw you staring at me today during Lit class. I smiled at you and you didn’t smile back. I almost cried.
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The girl who sits next to me smells like you.
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I miss you.
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I have never had so many bad nights.
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Sometimes I write poetry about you on the internet. Strangers who have never met either of us think you’re cruel – they tell me if they had the honor of loving me, we’d have sex three times a day and they’d scream my name when they came.
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They think it is beautiful, how I am broken. I don’t think they understand.
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You used to tell me I was beautiful. I tried saying it in the mirror the other day, but it sounded wrong without your mouth wrapped around it.
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Everything I say sounds wrong without your mouth wrapped around it.
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We were never in love, but, oh God, we could have been.
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s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
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