I am proud of very few things in my life.
My very best memories are tainted by doubt, insecurity.
What if’s and should’ve’s.
But one thing I am proud of, truly and unabashedly, is that
I loved you so fully and richly.
Oh, you never knew.
Oh, it was an exercise for my heart and you were just an object.
A boulder to roll up the mountain.
I never did reach the top, to see if you’d been climbing the other side.
We’ll never really know, “What if I pushed harder?”
I know I should’ve never tried.
But that’s not the point, what I’m trying to say is that
I can fit any word into my love for you.
Pull out Webster, try me.
Crimson.
How I felt when trying to talk to you, stumbling over my stupid tongue in my stupid head.
Eleven.
The number of minutes I could go without thinking of you, last August.
Delight.
The blood singing through me when I thought we could be friends, we were friends.
Petrichor.
The smell of dust after rain.
Nights spent crying over you, over me, my failures, how I fucked it all up.
Dust after rain.
The last night I cry about you, I'll cry so hard the dust washed away.
I’m just me now.
I’m clean again. I’m new. You are gone, yet the memories linger.
Petrichor.
YOU ARE READING
the angst album
Non-FictionA collection of the little things I write, some poems, some those scrolling paragraphs I can't ever seem to escape. Here is my heart, and since you are a stranger you cannot hurt me with it. Vote if you like, don't vote if you don't, hell you could...
