Realism
i.
you told me once
that i was like a pair of glasses
that i helped you see the world better
that i opened your eyes
you told me once
that i was a dreamer
[but you never told me that i was beautiful]
ii.
you used to draw
dead birds
their broken wings the colour of the bruised purple skyline
you have always been better at realism than me
i was an idealist
you didn't like stars
because they were too twinkly and romantic
[so i used to hide my sketchbook
full of dreams and stars and silver heartbeats]
iii.
once,
i cut out ninety four paper hearts
and hung them from the ceiling
because i'd heard
that was what you were supposed to do
you know,
when you're in love
[you never hung hearts from the ceiling for me
so i did it for you]
iv.
you found my sketchbook
with that picture of you
sleeping
delicate lavender veins on your eyelids
my best ever realism
you didn't say anything
you just looked at me
[i scribbled out the picture with black crayon when you weren't looking]
v.
i threw away the sketchbook
and pulled down the paper hearts
all ninety four of them
i couldn't bear to throw them away
so i locked them in a little silver box
along with my heart
[what was left of it]
vi.
i tried to be real enough for you
so i ignored the twinkling stars
and how they looked like fairylights hung up in the sky
i tried to forget
those ninety four paper hearts
locked in a box
with dead-end forevers
and broken iloveyous
i tried to get my head out of the clouds and open my eyes
[but sometimes i don't want to open my eyes
i want to shut them tight and pretend
that everything's ok]
vii.
teardrops on a crumpled sketchbook
like silver beads in the starlight
under a bruised purple skyline the colour of a bird's wing
too many things remind me of you
[because i couldn't prove to you that i was real
because i couldn't forget my broken heart
hidden in a box of paperdust]
