she made her way through the traffic barefoot
and
though neon lights blinded her,
she held her head high.
she was one of those girls that you grew up with
and who,
still stood by your side when you got uglier and she
had blossomed from a weed to a flower.
there was a time,
when i found religion in her eyes,
he tells me,
and there was a lonely comfort in her room
that smelled like wet paint
though she lived there for years and still,
did not feel at home.
she taught me the most important
lesson i could ever learn,
that
when nobody notices
it may feel like nobody cares.
but i
was confusing two very different things-
how far i
was willing to go to hurt myself,
and how far others
were willing to go to love me.
she was able to open my colorblind eyes,
and realize
how well i was able to hide myself.
she made me forget what it was like
to feel calm after eating breakfast.
she forged the fire on my tongue like hephaestus.
she helped me to bury the three birds in their twig nest
that we found dead
saturday morning.
she gathered the flowers
and i gathered the stones,
she was beautiful,
and i was cold.
i might have listened to him
for two hours
this monday
at one-thirty in the morning.
i (might have) listened to him
until i did not recognize who he was talking about;
until i saw
that he romanticized the girl he once was able
to love.
YOU ARE READING
horribly beautiful ✔️
Poesiapeople write about things that do not happen. they will romanticize this world in hopes of filling themselves up. they write like their words are food. but i have always written to empty myself completely. i will romanticize feeling nothing. jun...
