2 years later, she will let go of the anger
and for the first time, she will be able to smile and laugh.
Her eyes will glitter and she'll forget wet eyelashes and bloody wrists and the thoughts of bony arms and ribs
she will stop tasting asphalt at the back of her throat.
She will stop trying to choke back on tears and she will soon forget the brown-haired girl.
She will forget that her hands fit perfectly in her own's.
She will forget the soft coffee colour of her eyes.
She will forget the way her collarbones felt under her fingertips and she will forget 10am kisses pressed in between her collarbones and her soft smile whenever she kissed her.
She will forget how they danced in their underwear and she will forget the sound of her laugh.
She will forget the happiness and the love and affection (or so she will pretend).
YOU ARE READING
asphalt
Poetry"though your skin's sheet white and your arms carry scars, your hair isn't clean much and your lungs black with tar and god, you love to argue and you can't play guitar but still let me tell you that I love who you are." 2014
