brusque teen

it was ink.
black and smeared across the pages of  love letters i sent to you.
written and wasted.
left in the shoe box under your bed.
and i never got a letter back.

i started writing a new letter
but nothing came out.
i scribbled in the margins
desperately hoping to smear a little bit more,
somewhere,
anywhere,
but ink runs out,
and so did my love for you.
all that's left is pain.

 love.
i can't feel it anymore cuz my heart's not working.
i think it broke when you dropped it,
or maybe that time you threw it at the wall.

it definitely doesn't beat the same anymore.
especially when your around.
maybe it's afraid you'll rip it out again,
and keep it locked in your vault.
my heart has told me terrible things about that vault of yours.
that it's dusty,
and that the air is full of whimpers and howls from the dead souls that you refuse to release.
and that they've been trapped since the day they set eyes on you.

i'm lucky i got out alive,
maybe alive is too generous of a word.
not dead is better.

but did i get out?
cuz i still feel like i'm drowning when i see you.
and i see you everywhere.
i see you in the hall,
in the store,
in the pictures on my wall,
in the lines on my ceiling.

your a disease.
and i'm a survivor. 

our love is car drives in the backseat.
it's fingers laced with mine,
small hands,
and gift baskets.
tissues for cold noses,
and kissing in the rain.
it's all i think about.

it's animal crackers and orange spoons,
and its you and me falling over sea shells and getting our toes wet.
it's making mistakes and saying sorry,
and its saying i forgive you and then forgetting.

our love is sitting in my car at 2 am,
not wanting to leave.
our love was everything to me.

and then our love left my lips cold.

once in a while i miss you.
like those nights when i hear our song and i see your blue eyes.
or those days i drive past that place i held those small hands.

i thought i was over you but thoughts are imaginary.
i don't miss you.
i've moved on.
i'm glad your gone.
good riddance
those are just a few of the things i tell myself.