"Who are you?"
You harshly whisper yelled at me one sunny afternoon.
I am tempted to write rainy, because a lovers quarrel in the pouring rain
Seems more lovely
Than two angry and hurt adolescents screaming in a sunshine heated park.
The hot plastic slide did not burn me
As much as your words did.
I was the gal who never felt more at home Than when she was clandestinely staying at yours,
Opening my brown eyes after a nap
To watch you open yours.
Peaceful and soothing.
The only thing comparable to hiding in my room and escaping my life
With the words of another,
Was your warm hand clasped around mine.
I was the girl
Who once lied about not having read a novel
Just so that I could bask in the passion That coated your voice
As you spoke of it.
The one who filled her own books
With words of you.
Phrases you never felt like reading.
But holding your hand felt like reading to me.
But I suppose you never knew those things Because you never saw the things I had written of you.
You never saw the hearts around your name,
Your last name glued onto my first.
You never saw who I was.
You just saw a smile,
Bruises and scars, with origins I lied about. You saw a smile
Plastered across a made up face.
That day at the park
You almost saw me.
You saw sadness,
And turned away before veiwing the rest.
