this is begining to sound like hate, but without the murder mystery.

Have you ever felt yourself falling
and forgot to hold your hands out?


i.
the bedsheets scrap my skin,
leaving imprints of imperfect decisons
from years before.
I wish I could spit out sarcasm,
for every sore throat he past gives me -
I swear I'd be choking on my own conclusions.

The funny thing about words is,
they burn like ether -
always yours.
Tickling my tonsils, scorching
secrets deep inside painted palace
of inner perversions.

Are we talking about you yet?


ii.
It's funny how moments merge
to make more moments, sometimes
I lay on the grass and look up at the sky,
glazing over like my earth eaten eyes.

I hate talking about love like this,
it's supposed to be pretty butterflies
with rainbow dreams, but reality is far away
from those love struck teens.

iii.
I can still smell your cologne;
calvin klein [contradiction?]
what an absurdity.

You'd never mix messages,
just delete them -

that's where we were different.


iv.
Loving a boy is different than loving a man;
boys kiss secretly under the stars, spontaneous and passionate.
Men just kiss to feel your lips and everything else against his -

I hate boys for never growing up but really,
Peter Pan was kind of cute, in a falsely innocent kind of way.

I liked that about me once,
but I doubt I was ever innocent now.


v.
I hate writing, maybe I should stop.


Even though that's what you want.