Golden Hour at Apostle Islands, Wisconsin, February 2014, posted by badtzxo
I said at sixteen that I don’t believe in anything, but now
I am thinking that isn’t true. I am thinking of you,
and the dappled light on the floor of your room.
And your songs, and your jaw, and the color of the moon
before a snowstorm.
Both eighteen, we agreed that this love
was not worth waiting for. The door was locked.
I touched your skin, and wondered if it would ever happen again.
At the train station, I cry, and a stranger brings me tissues.
I don’t want to kiss you, so you leave, and my knees are weak.
There is nothing sharper than the words, “I am not what you need.”
So I preserve the last moments in amber
and build a shadow box. I settle for “he loves me not.”
And I tell my mother I’m fine, but last week
I met someone with your eyes
and had to leave the party, just to avoid him.
Friday nights, I get drunk in the bathroom
and I make a scene. My friends keep me clean.
They don’t let me call you when I am bawling on the bathroom floor.
I tell everyone I don’t miss you anymore.
And you don’t miss me anymore. And I am a whore,
and maybe I told you already, but love is a pretty heavy concept.
So I won’t say I love you. Everywhere I go I hear new
reasons to believe that I am lucky. My friends love me.
On Saturday morning I shave half my head. You will never see it.
You will never ask
how I am healing.
I was surprised to find I had been faking it all along.