Evan
Write about me, baby. Explain how you feel in rhymes and allegories. Tell me how I matter and tear at your heart. Write to me all the things you can't say when you're sober. Tell me how you wish you loved me; tell me how great that'd be. Tell me you wished your heart ached for the right person although it's not meant to be. Even though it'd be hard to read, I'd memorize it all. Let me help and attempt to tell you how I feel like I tried before in the songs we used to sing: you know, I used to post just because, now I post to start a cause. Anger from my insipid expectations set so high, boils like water when the temperature is just right. Steam from my ears and fires in my eyes; I'm like a goddamn cartoon, bouncing from wall to wall, birds circling my brain. I can't decipher the true meaning of where this is coming from, whether it was her or it was without you, either way I want to bleed. Dark and unlike me, I know. I'm driving my sunflower further away by the second and the urge to reach out to you has never been stronger. Too soon, too soon, her words echo in my ear and I try to be brave. But I've never walked so far away from a friend before. Is this distance enough? No. Run. Sprint. Fly away, dear baby, dear Carter. You're not ready. I know but I think I'm in deep. I can't mutter those words and now this poem isn't about you but me. What is it with you and poetry? It's like my brain and heart refuse to coexist for the sake of my sanity -- it's slipping. Dare I continue and suffer or indulge and go under? My mother said she carved a cross into her wrist because of the songs that said it was okay; it helped with the pain. Now I'm not too sure about that but it's definitely left its scar. The ones that form a tear, I delete. I refuse to feel until I know what it means. Sorry, I meant to talk about you but hey, maybe this is good. You always asked and I never told, fearful my shame and pain wasn't good enough. Now I'm seeing a play tomorrow, one where they sing and dance. I'll pretend I don't suffer through my teeth as I try not to remember the first night of 2016, the night when you said you couldn't sing or dance but your voice sounded better when I sang along.
YOU ARE READING
How I Love You
Poetry". . . . Then must you speak / Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well; / Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, / Perplex'd in the extreme. . . ." -Act 5, Scene 2 of Othello by W. Shakespeare A collection of poems to the boys and men I hav...
