day 148

note to self/ open letter to a boy in my past/ things I need to confess pt.1

You have not swayed me long enough for me to think of you when the trees mourn in autumn. We did not fall together in wholeheartedly love. We fell not too far from the tree to taste the sin on each others bodies. Your sweat and the prick of your masculinity drew too many memories I would like to erase. I would like to forget the way my body associates muscle memory with you.
The night we f*cked I swore you would not leave your lips on my skin. The poison left way too much of an impression. The action of using someone had never hit so close to home. I've never known I could become guest room. You kissed me on the forehead and wished me goodnight. The way a husband does to his wife. I remember wishing you wouldn't. The body of a man only kisses the forehead of a woman to seek more of her dreams. Learning about my worth was a nightmare to you. It is probably the only thing besides flowers that would wake you up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.
I remember the morning after. You held me and kissed me like you wanted to slip me out of my skin. I thought being a souvenir was special. But you held flesh like making a trophy.
And trophy wives just wait to be fucked.
And trophy wives just wait to be fucked up in the head.
And trophy wives move six hours away to be swayed by your visits, and words, and effort.

I often wonder if she knows about me. I've never known I could become guest room to a boy with lost hands and lips and skin. She doesn't know that I kept her side of the bed warm.. Does she? That I've become practice to your lips for the moment you two shall meet again and share poison that I've kept bitter for the both of you. You have not swayed me long enough for me to think of you when the trees mourn in autumn. But I think of you when I hear love songs and the cities in New York. I think of you when I hear one night stands and infidelity and breaking hearts. When two school kids f*ck. When the smacking of two lips are pressed firmly against a forehead, and the squeak of a bed symbolizes the practice of sex and practicing for a lover, a real lover, for the body you really want and seem to have waited for. Not mine. I hope you understand this is why I don't want to be friends anymore. I know too much. Maybe if your lips kissed my forehead in seek of learning how to love me, you would know that. Instead, your lips kissed my forehead because all the other curves on my body rejected your poison.


I hate you.