People say you can't love someone else until you love yourself fully. I guess that's true.
The dip and drive of the waist. The way it can turn, come to a complete stop, just to start again, to wrap around your intensely suffocated throat, cutting off your words like your anxiety, because you need to tell them you're taken. But not by a someone, a something. It's a phobia, you can't let anyone see the baggage you carry around on your shoulders like a bindle. Full of daddy issues, self-loathing, albums of sad iconic music, mason jars of different fractions of your doppelgangers soul, out of control overbearing exes, and plenty more to have you packing up your SUV and getting the hell out before you become apart of the hurricane of emotions that I hold onto, because that's all I have left.
Loving the way your arms are wrapped around their symmetric midsection when you can't stand the way yours travels to Cali on a 20-hour heartbreak, 36-hour trainwreck, 16-mile walk to the untouchable territory.
The way their slender fingers feel like a sabotage as they crush your brittle collar bones. The longing in the arms, slithering to your shoulders, to reinforce the tonnage, thoughts, half their heart, just for a piece of you, because they know, they know that you're not trying to be difficult, not trying to add more noise to the already overflowing stereo headphones to deafen the ears, they have the urge to caress everytime you lie together. It's their way of giving you a pleasure that doesn't have to involve the longing sexual look that they gave you the first time you had sex because you couldn't make love because you weren't in love. You didn't know love, because you have to love yourself first, right? You have to love the way your thighs march to the beat of the cold steps you take. Or the way your smile is always lopsided, because of the faint scar sitting in the lower left corner. You have to love all of this, but how come you can't get your to mind to follow the band as they play the positive notes through the trumpets and violins?
YOU ARE READING
Faded Blue Jeans
PoetryThis is a book of poetry written by me, but if it is not then I'll put the owner in the chapter.
