Me and my mom pushed my dresser out from the wall,
and found, in the same place where I hid it,
your stash of love letters addressed to me.
Along with the letters were tiny trinkets,
things you had pocketed from the dollar store,
items from local yardsales,
anything that reminded you of me.
My mom didn't understand that we were more than friends,
more than buddies that painted each other's nails and
talked about boys, no,
we talked about each other.
We talked about each other as if the moon was
as normal as granite compared to the other,
as if the sun was worthless and oxygen was pointless.
I still remember sitting on your roof
at 2:30 am stargazing,
chugging a bottle of Captain Morgan
and hoping for everything to end up alright.
We both knew it wouldn't, and it didn't,
but that didn't stop us.
So there was the love letters,
and a flash flood of memories.
Pouring in all at once,
drowning all my thoughts of rationality.
And then all I could think of
was not you,
but us.
YOU ARE READING
I wanna die
PoetryPoems about the living, dead, and all in between Tons of queer stuff in this book LGBTQ+ safe space [not all are mine. If they are not mine, I will credit the owner]
