He has called me three times since he left,

After he cut my heart with a piece of glass
I figured there is no point pouring salt into a wound

I think about the way his lips curl
and the way he could drive me insane,
but the point of love is not to be driven to madness
it is to forget all the madness of the world within eachother

And when he looked at me
I'm sure all he saw was her
and he’d touch me, pretending I was her
But i’m not

My body was so foreign to his hands

But he could imagine the feeling of my ribs,

underneath his finger tips, 

were hers

And there is a difference between wanting to be good enough
and wanting to become some one else
I would travel to the ends of the world just to please him

and i would pull the moon down with one hand, just to give it to him
but i will not bend and break my own back trying to be something im not

He is the largest mixture of metaphors i could create,
my hands hurt from writing about him
he doesn’t deserve this
he’d never love a girl like me, despite wanting to

he thought i would be a good eraser for her, and that's all I ever was

and as I lay there in my bed thinking over and over about the would have beens and could have beens
I laugh, my head fills with pain,
tears roll down my face
I realise it was only in my head that we could ever be something, but i was only a cigarette break to him
and now i am left needing nicotine patches