nevermind + poetry.

you asked me why i wouldn't take you back.

i think that this will be the last poem i write about you. the last one i write for you.

it's not that i didn't love you, it's because the longer i stayed with you the less i loved myself.

it's because you treated me like an object. plastic, silicone, synthetic and shiny- a toy to play with when you were bored. i know this because when i cracked you had no problem tossing me aside to find something newer and shiner and more pliable under your greedy fingers.

i pity the girl who you love after me. because it will be me who slips into your mind when you wake up, it will be my name that you spell like love. my kiss on your lips. i pity her, because you will always remember me crying, screaming, hating you- loving you.

i pity her because even if she is nice and shiny and pretty, she is not me. i don't think you ever loved me, not really. i think that to you i was a very good, very perplexing pastime. you hosted my pity party and made yourself the guest of honor.

the horrible truth is that you are selfish, you are nothing truly special and i can't fix you, you can't fix me. i saw you and talked to you and thought that you were the most beautiful thing i would ever see. that i had tasted the rawest form of honey, the purest sugar. but that is so limiting. it is limiting, and more importantly- it is not true.

the truth is that now as i sit in my bed i will occasionally think about how you wrote me poems with your tongue and saw my freckles like constellations, how you said i was cute when i was cold and that you liked my hair when it was frizzy and tangled. the truth is that i fell in love with you, and it made my head hurt.

the truth is for a while you were the only thing i liked more than writing poems. i am sitting here in my bed acting strong and victorious but really i am still in pieces, just the way you left me.

you messed me up so bad, do you know that?

that doesn't sound poetic, really, it doesn't- but i don't think there is a metaphor to sum it all up. i can't pity you. you set me on fire and i guess the flames were nice for a while, sunshine yellow and blazing orange and red, red, red. but once you got close the fire was too hot. too bright. it scared you. it scared me.

i am sorry i cannot be what you want. i am sorry i didn't give like wax beneath your fingers.

i am disappointed i let you break me, and that i have only picked up some of the pieces. my whole body is half empty, some of its contents still carving into your hands or swimming on your tongue.

the truth is that i don't hate you, i love you, which is probably a lot worse.

( i hope you are happy with your sad girl, your paper smile. you know, the other day my friend told me that you were happy because you liked her a lot and she liked you. i hate myself because for some reason it hurt. a lot.  i hope you forget about me. you should know that i will never forget about you. )