i’ve begun to develop a sense for these kinds of things.

with how often they happen, i should be prepared to fall;

but i wanted so badly for you to believe that i was good,

that i was just as smart as you and i could understand all of your complicated theological opinions,

that i was capable of kafka and hemingway and french poetry.

i was so hungry and eager to please that i swallowed it all down and now

for whom the bell tolls makes me think of your big hands and your expensive cologne that

just smelled like cigarettes to me-

i think you lied to me when you told me you didn't smoke that much,

agreeing when i said that "cancer isn't grunge",

because you always had a lighter on you.

i remember because i wanted so desperately to touch it to my skin,

to burn off your fingerprints everytime you came over,

but i let you keep coming back.

i let you back in, a hundred times it must've been, to my clean head and my

pure idealistic worldview and everytime you would tattoo over it with

wet dreams and your stupid freaking french poetry.

“it really isn't bad,

but not my cup of tea.”

that's what you said,

everytime i shared something that really mattered to me,

like grunge music or modern art or

anything that made me feel clean again.

i want to be free of all of the rupturing and internal injuries,

and the truth is i never will be,

but the dead can still dream-

right?

i would ask you but you

haven't answered my texts in months and

i know now it's better that way but

you didn't have to be so abrupt and ready to step on the breaks;

i promise you,

i really did love you

no matter how many times you stabbed me.