“December has only begun and already I’m tired
of loving boys who will never love me back. I am
doing my best to brace myself for another month of
empty nights but my hands are just so weak. I hate the
weather. I hate looking over my shoulder and seeing
the sun so close behind me. November was so full of dreaming.
It was so full of turning points with no visible ends and
resolutions that were only made to be broken. I promised
my father I would stop skipping breakfast. I told my mother
that I’d make a better effort to start cleaning up after
myself. I keep writing poems. I keep writing poems about
you. When I go to bookstores, I flip through pages and
highlight the words that remind me of you the most. I stay
until my finger tips are yellow. I stay until I can recite the
words perfectly. December has only begun and already
my heart has had trouble beating. You are still in the veins.
My skin hasn’t been doing a very good job of keeping me
together the way it should. There are certain corners of my
body that ache almost as if they have been deprived of
blood flow. I don’t think I have ever missed you this
I left my favorite pair of underwear at your house. I know your mother hates me, can I come pick them up?
It’s been almost a month and I still miss you like a fucking limb.
I didn’t know my bones could ache until I met you.
You know, a week before we broke up, do you remember? I had bought a book of poetry. You asked why I didn’t read something more interesting and I could feel my insides splinter.
You said poetry was all lies dressed up to sound pretty. When I look at you these days, I want to ask if sadness sounds pretty to you too.
It’s 3 a.m. and this alcohol tastes like you.
I saw you staring at me today during Lit class. I smiled at you and you didn’t smile back. I almost cried.
The girl who sits next to me smells like you.
I miss you.
I have never had so many bad nights.
Sometimes I write poetry about you on the internet. Strangers who have never met either of us think you’re cruel – they tell me if they had the honor of loving me, we’d have sex three times a day and they’d scream my name when they came.
They think it is beautiful, how I am broken. I don’t think they understand.
You used to tell me I was beautiful. I tried saying it in the mirror the other day, but it sounded wrong without your mouth wrapped around it.
Everything I say sounds wrong without your mouth wrapped around it.
We were never in love, but, oh God, we could have been.