I talk about you with so much sadness in my tone. I realize I don't love him because I love you and others like you. I am still scared to accept it, so I bring sadness to myself. I'm not embarrassed of being gay, I'm embarrassed that I am still afraid to admit it. To tell these boys I don't want to kiss them not because I don't like them, because I don't like any of them. Maybe not now. I don't know. I don't know if this is because I still draw hearts around your name and cross bow arrows through my head when I hum your favorite words. Sometimes I stop myself from writing poetry about you and your skin and your kiss and the way you make me feel. Sometimes. Other times, I can't help it. I don't talk to you about it because there's no point. We are not two lovers, in any kind of way. We just kiss occasionally when you decide to come back into my life and I hold you when you come to my shows just because I want you to feel how my body effortlessly gives in to your poison. You are slowly killing me.
I woke up on his skin this morning and I only wished I had shared a shitty mattress with your silky skin. And your soft eyes. And your soft soul.
No comments:
Post a Comment