There was nothing I could do to make you love me.
Your silence was like rose thorns pressed to my skeletal fingers,
You wouldn’t offer me a band aid.
So my blood stained my skin,
Tried to soak back into my iron deficient body;
A body that not only lacked red blood cells,
But the warmth that came with the flow of them.

There was absolutely nothing I could do to make you love me.
I tried to be that girl,
With the smooth lips, and the coconut smelling hair, and the curls that one would ache to run his fingers through.
I only used red nail polish on my toes because I believed it was the color of love,
When really it was the color of my pain.
When I woke up in the morning I let the shower stream soak though my hair,
Pretending it was rain that you would cliché kiss me in.
Sometimes when I nicked myself with the razor,
I wondered if your lips over my legs would drip just as sticky.

There was no way I could make you love me.
I came to your every call,
Licked my lips at every word,
As if I could taste your voice because I sure as hell couldn’t taste your mouth.

No matter how much I loved you,
I could not make you love me back.
Every time your luminescent blue eyes poured over my body,
I prayed you would drown me,
Prayed that I could die peacefully in your irises.
I wanted my fingers to graze the blond curls on your chest,
My tongue to taste your lopsided shoulders.
You always said you hated your scoliosis,
But I loved it.
It was and is your only imperfection and reminds me every day that you are a person, too.

That you love someone who isn’t me.