6 things I should tell you but haven't

1. You are giving me growing pains. I have stretch marks showing up, on my hips, lips, thighs. I never knew I could be this much.

2. I'm sorry for all my past and future mistakes. I am still getting the hang of this. I want to be better.

3. Sometimes my stomach hurts when you kiss me. Being with you scares me. You are miles away from my comfort zone.

4. Last night you told me you loved me for the first time, during a drunken fight. You're an idiot. I love you. I've loved you for weeks. I can't remember what it's like not to love you.

5. I write and rewrite texts to you. It has been months and I still can't control myself. I will not stop trying for you.

6. You still leave me speechless. I can't remember how to string words together because all I can think of is your lips. I have tried writing two dozen poems about you. None did you justice.

The Beginning of the End

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The fluorescent light from the bathroom presses greys and blues into the shadows of the darkened room. I'm lacing our fingers under the duvet.
"Maybe two weeks." He says.
"You're kidding!" I react, "Please- tell me that you're kidding!"
"I'm joking," he laughs, "maybe three months- maybe more."
I smile at him. "I can't imagine sleeping with anyone else."
"Me neither."
I kiss his hand.
"I don't want to break up yet." His last word dominates the sentence. My stomach hurts.
"Me neither."
As we lie against one another I contemplate the shift that has occurred between us. For the first time in a long time I can feel the edges of myself. For the first time in my memory, I feel lonely.
"I love you." He says, it sounds different. For reasons I don't fully understand I want to cry. I can't see his face in the dark but I can feel his gaze, he's waiting.
"I love you, too."Is it me or does it sound lighter?
My cunt is still wet with his saliva.



In six months I will break up with you. And I will wait two weeks.  It will mean something. 

Letterhead #17

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Dear Jack,

I am so, so sorry I fell out of love with you.

If it means anything, I didn't want to fall out of love.

But I just…I felt so far away from myself.

I tried so much to make it work. And I did for a while. 

And we were happy.

I was the perfect girlfriend. But I wasn't me.

I fell out of love with you when I fell in love with myself.

And that's when I stopped wanting to try.

It's not your fault and it's not mine.

We both changed until we stopped suiting each other.

Thank-you for being the perfect first love.

I hope we can still stay friends.

With love,

Letterhead #16

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Dear Jack,
I'm lonely when I'm with you.
Not always, but often.
I try so hard not to be sad around you.
Or if I am sad, not to let it show.

I don't want to tie my sadness to you.
Tie you to my sadness.
I told you that, once.
You said something like:
I'm sorry that you're sad, but it doesn't affect my mood.
You wanted to reassure me.
It did.
But it also made me feel
so
incredibly
lonely.
Sometimes I feel so lonely it feels as though I'm trying to breathe in Carbon Dioxide. 
Because, you're my person, and even you don't understand.
It was different when I was alone.
I was better at caring for myself.
Less focussed on you.
Less soft.
It was better.
I don't know if I can get better with you.
I can't breathe.

It's getting to the point where I am no fun anymore, I am sorry. / Sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud, ' I am lonely.' / I am yours, you are mine, you are what you are, you make it hard.

-David Crosby

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Letterhead #15

Dear Jack,
I'm petrified. I don't want to look at you the wrong way.
I'm scared because I can't avoid this. You can't see it coming but I can.
When you're thirty, and married, and maybe you have a child or two.
And you think back to me, the first girl that ever counted for you, the girl you thought might be the one.
And you cringe.
The aspiring actress. The sometimes drunken, always depressed mess. An incredibly self-absorbed, shallow, foolish girl.
And you wonder what happened, or maybe you'll know. And you won't be as open-minded as you are now, and you'll know what an idiot I am. For the drugs and the self-destruction.
Ugh. What a cliche.

untitled

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my skin
rises to meet your hands
i can tell
i have no control, that
this is unconscious
it's automatic
instinctive
this
this is bigger than you
or me
this is chemistry
and nature
and DNA
this is written into my body
into the patterns of your palms
as they glide
down my spine
over my stomach
this is different
and new
and it makes my heart
beat
in time with something
there isn't a word for.
this might not be love but
it makes me believe in it.

The Apiarist.

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there is
a storm of bees
swarming, forming
around her head
on days like this morning
people passing
pretending
they can not see
any bees, can not see
the honey
dripping from her
eyes
knees
thighs
there is no smoke, today

one young man
nears her
does not wear
a beekeeper suit
but still, leans in
and licks the honey
off her swollen chin
and licks the honey
off his velvet lips
i think, maybe,
he knows
today, she doesn't like honey
i think, maybe,
he knows
she doesn't like to be
a beekeeper
always.

she wonders
if he exists
to prove the bees
don't have to.

Meat.

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The other night:
The way your eyes
looked at mine
made me feel
sick, sad, alone.
Please please please
do not look
at me
that way.
The way the other boys have.
I chose
you because
your eyes
are different.

bittersweet

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I can feel change coming on again, stronger than before. It's heating up my veins. 

It's the spark in my eyes, the catch in my voice.