TsunamiThis is my confession:I dreamt you took my hand and put it to your lips, kissing each fingertipmy only sigh was, 'Oh love me'confession:your eyes washed over me like a tsunamiswept awayi drown, darling, drown.confession:he will never replace youand I know the day is quickly approachingremember we always said when we were olderand now here I am.and though you said I was bad at paintingyou called me beautiful and that was enoughAnother, worse, confession:today I picked up my phoneand decided I would send you a messageI would tell you everything in a 60-letteredlittle boxbut I know that it would be wrongto face a fearonlyhalfwayand I only hope when you look at meyou still see the girl you fell in love withbecause, I conf
Tomorrow, maybe.i.I write prose sometimes.Prose doesn't have to rhyme.It doesn't need rhythm.Just thoughts on a page.It's choppy.Sometimes.Stumbling on my own meaning.I forget that I am bleeding.But it can't hide like poetry can.ii.it means i can drink my coffee even in the summer.it means i can climb the tallest tree, despite how they've warned me. promising as i go that I'll come back down someday after i have been all scraped up and learned my lesson.i don't know even my own intentions.iii.i am without wings.i once dared to close my eyesto step out the door blind.i could have sworn you were there to catch mebut the bruises on my knees are proof:this world was meant for people who can see clearly.iv.pen and paper are the only weaponsi could ever use against you.and even then, i couldn't bear to hurt you.instead i write about juvenile things you don't understandmy romantic notions of fingertips and rainstorms and coffeeand i pray you could be impressed with it,if nothing t
Fragilei.i wrote this for you.i wanted you to knowthat i am always(changing)the sameii.i burned my mouth on my coffeeand remembered the scorch of your lipsburning, stinging, lingering. and i finally lost those ten poundsthat you told me i didn't need to losebut i felt the need to be underweightand at night, i curled my little self up in a balland thought of every part of me thatyou could never love.i guess a part of me always wantedto be fragile.iii.you will never know how many times i saw youin the backs of other men,and i ran to them, calling your nameand they'd turn, confused.they'd say, "Can I help you, miss?"and i looked into their unfamiliar eyesand wished with everything in methat i could say yes."could you promise a certain boywill see me again? because i seem to havedisappeared."and I'd walk away disappointedbecause that was the day I'd decided I would tell you:you are the sunlightstreaming through my window in the morning.iv.i spend h
Triviali.I think about writing about starsand empty soda bottlesand anything unrelated to youbut then you and your whirlpool eyes...my pretty stars are space junkand my empty soda bottles are trash.ii.i pointed out orion in the sky.you took my hand andasked me why it matteredover the clinking sound of breaking chinaor cheap metal maybe,something as insignificant as my heart.my fingers curled into fists,as i realized you had no clue how you bruised meiii.I love every bit of youyour eyes, your hair, the shape of your jawand your nose and earsthe things people notice when they first see youyour fingers, your natural rhythm,the way you pick up little thingsand turn them over in your hands.the things nobody notices but melove makes everything precious treasure.makes trivial objects, sounds, and memoriessuddenly wonderful.how you squint when you smile,almost hiding those eyes i loveand your lips twist up like they used toright before you kissed me.iv.if i were to co
Love: A Monologue of My Own Love was never meant to be easy. You'd think it was, the way it's portrayed. In the movies, the boy and the girl always fall in love in the end. They just can't help it. I've always wanted a love like that. I'm sure I'm not the only one, either. We all saw the boy-meets-girl scene, the joy of falling for someone, and the way the characters lived out their dreams. Knowing full well that they were just actors, filling the roles they were given, reading from a page that was written by some starry-eyed writer. But we wanted it too. I once starred in romance, the most movie-like romance you could get. It was so cleche. But I loved every moment of it, thinking, "This is just like a movie. This will be perfect. We will finally have our 'happily ever after'" But they had never showed in the movie, the part where the boy and girl fall out of love. The part when the boy f
We whispered orangethis was yesterday when i was walking along the streetholding hands with youand we saw a stranger in a dark hat who said he was misssing hispurple umbrellaand we smiled and told him that he must be mistakenbecause they were all sold out at the carnivalbut he could have my heart instead because you didn't want it anymore.
Twenty-SixOn the 26th, I carried 26 cents in my pocket and thought of 26 reasons why I love you.When I turned 16, I asked you to kiss me 16 times, one for each year.The last two had to be the best because the past two years with you had been the best out of all my sixteen.On the ninth, I only allowed myself to cry nine tears and think of nine reasons that you should still be mine, nine reasons that we belonged together.I couldn't find the nine breaths of air to say it.Thirteen people told me it was all going to be okay.Thirteen people lied.Five months later I wrote you five letters telling you how much you meant to me and only got five words in return"Things are better this way."The 26th came around again and I had no change in my pockets and only half of my 26 reasons to love you. I held twenty pills in my hand and shook countless shivers because it all felt so wrong and the numbers weren't matching up.The phone rang four times but yours was the one voice I wanted to hear.It was the