I'm sorry that I made you into a poem. I made every excuse, took every spiteful, cruel thing between us and turned them into metaphors.
Claw marks in my bed.
A bullet to the chest.
Fist-sized holes where my heart used to beat.
There are so many ways to describe what you did to me, and what I did to you.
The simple truth: We hurt each other.
I wanted to love you so badly but I didn't know how to. Even now, I'm finding ways to craft words into flowers and put them on our tombstone.
I wish I knew better. I wish I didn't dream in fragments.
Your lips.
My hand in yours.
Laughter in the hollow of your collarbone.
The simple truth: Nostalgia makes the heart grow fonder.
I never meant to romanticize my love for you. I created a world where we were happy, but none of it was real.
I'm sorry, and I hope that you are too.
(alternative title: THIS IS A GOODBYE)
YOU ARE READING
Kiss Me, Kill Me
Poetry"HE is my morning star." In which I attempt to write something meaningful. [#381 in Poetry 11.10.16]
