oh, and how breathtakingly beautiful his lips are as the crisp winter air brushes against them, just like i wish mine could every single second that i see him. i've somehow managed to become absolutely infatuated with the way his breathing slows when he comes in contact with me, the way his eyes flutter closed when my fingers run through his dark locks, the way his grin widens when he sees me. or, should i say, saw. now, he can't even return a fucking call. i've attempted to explain to him how i feel, my attempts ranging from a heartbroken text message, to a broken voicemail. i tried and tried and tried and tried to rid my mind of this boy, but the times that he's not all that i think about are the times that i wish to scrape a cold, hard blade across my already bruised skin. these bruises are not from physical hurt, no, of course not. my heart has ruptured and has managed to slice my body beneath the skin with its broken shards.
YOU ARE READING
poetry
Poesíathis is stupid poetry written by me about a boy. yes, love stories have come to be horribly mainstream. yes, the word love has been thrown around so much it hardly has meaning to some people anymore. but, if we've never experienced worse than heart...
