Evan
I delete all the songs filled with memories and tuck them away in a Pandora box. Thank God the entire music industry hasn't been tainted by your kiss. It's funny though, I could never find a song you didn't know. Everything exciting was taken away with a voice: you singing along to the words, like you already knew. Already knew the danger was coming and we'd erupt but somehow you didn't stop. Stop kissing and stop melting every piece of my heart. The beat keeps going and it's messing with my motions cause I've realized I got a beast locked inside my rib cage. I think about the next girl, if you'll listen to some of the songs I tried to expose you to. Will you remember me? Will you tell the story about me? Would I be a story even worth telling? How will you tell it -- how will you feel? How will she listen? Or am I just a number? Number sixteen. I'm sixteen. I was sixteen. I lost it at sixteen. Innocence destroyed, confusion overflowing, mercy: none, all at the age of sixteen. Did I want you? Did I think it was okay? Did I choose you? I don't remember. All I remember is the first swallow of a beverage that smelled like nail polish, and the look of the word "okay" on a page. Bold black ink permanently written on your forearm that says don't let your past define you. But now I don't know cause you took me at sixteen. Too young, not ready, didn't want, unsteady. And I feel as though I got the word slut cut in the same spot where my fingers once traced your scar. But it doesn't bother me. What have I done? What have I become? I'm not too sure now cause I think you took the butterfly inside my rib cage.
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...
