Other girls are always writing to lovers new and old and I am still clenching my fists,bottling up my fingertips,shutting out poetry because even now,they smell of you.
Other girls write of moonlit promenades and musty cafes which still bear their and their lovers’ odes to each other,their burnt over grimy wrecks of love still bubbling in their veins,their patterns of love burning out in justified,time-tested ways.
I wish we had evolved more elaborate means to self destruction. You know,I am as bad at it as at nurturing or creating-I can’t light a cigarette because I am scared of fire so fucking close to my goddamn face, I am still blowing smoke into my eyes and they end up burning red.I don’t sob out then and there.I apologise to my body and try to make my scars look different from what they did when I was sixteen.
I went six months without bleeding but only because my body still hasn’t learned to follow routine.Yet I still wound up with thighs ruby-red.I don’t wear white anymore and everything is okay.
I don’t feel much anymore,and I am so grateful. Everything is receding to a blur-this is how I will remember all this in years to come-butterscotch walls,badly painted over art,ghosts plastered on them a year back long since fallen off. I spread myself out below familiar branches and tell myself I should probably stop aching so I closed my eyes and chewed down the words till my throats swelled up from it.
I am sorry, half burnt cigarettes,eyes wide open,aglow till death. I am sorry, sooty heart,face-down burying itself . I am sorry,mother who so hoped I would stay good,thank you for holding me when i cry. I am sorry,doughy flesh body I am too tired to even hate now. i am sorry,poems that I won’t let be written. This is an obsession with premature deaths,and my whole life,terse on tiptoe,is a goddamn scrawl on it,that and of swallowing rusty could-have-beens.
-This was supposed to be a poem and this was supposed to be not about you.