i tried.
i really tried to convince myself that this was better, that i was happy again.
but while i had you in my arms that night in your basement, i was staring at the wall instead of the tv screen.
what the hell am i doing, i thought to myself. you have feelings for me yet i just needed someone to mess with.
your sweater fell off of your shoulder where my arm was wrapped around you and i realized your skin was softer than mine. too soft. that night i scrubbed my shoulders until they hurt.
they still had spots. i don't know what the hell you're made of.
i wish you were not so soft.
at least your head is prickly.
i don't want to know how you see me.
you know, i tried.
i tried to show you that i'm not a kid.
i'm not a kid.
i'm fifteen and i wish you would touch me as if i were eighteen, because you're eighteen, and i think that scares you.
i wish you would shut up some times.
i told you. i want more.
but you don't know what to give me, and i think that scares you too.
YOU ARE READING
Everything left to complain about (stopped) (go read my other poem book)
PoesíaPoems and strings of words that don't qualify as poems, from all four years of high school until the summer after freshman year of college. My recent works and anything I continue to write can be found in my new poem book, "Open your hands and say s...
