At least if you don't ask,
I don't have to lie.
I've spent most of the past
few months asleep
on the bathroom floor;
sick of keeping everything in,
too tired to let it out.
"Home" is such an empty word.
I'm not sure why it felt
whole coming from your mouth.
I'm not sure
why I felt
whole.
We both know I'm just an idea
to carve into sheetrock
with swollen fists;
leaving worn out holes that
your heart never fit.
I try not to wake up,
but my body is used to
(everyone leaving)
routines.

I am a cigarette to you.

You lit me up,
and I burned slowly,
and you enjoyed my simple highs,
and got dizzy from my insides.

You began to crave me,
addicted to the sensations I gave your mind,
reliant on the comfort I gave you.

But your fingers began to slip,
and I would burn you,
and I had no choice,
I was on fire.

Then I was nothing but a filter,
and you stomped me into the ground.

But in the end, I was killing you all along.

Do I still love you? With every harsh rejection, every brutal truth you offered, every single time that you kept yourself stingily from me, I forgave you in a single breath. No one understood how I could endure, least of all you. You tried your damnedest to keep that wall up. But I refuse to be labeled as "just another one" locked away and hidden in some secret file. You're going to remember me as the girl who loved you the most. Even in your despicable moments, I never gave up. I never walked away. Through your disappearing acts, your hurtful words, your avoidance of serious topics, your ****** fantasies. I kept my rare, fondest memories of your softer self. I just kept smiling through the trials knowing that this was the dark side you let guard you. And that if I dug deep enough, I'd find your warm smile and carefree laughter to set them free again.

I do not cringe upon hearing or reading your name. Instead, I whisper softly, tenderly, "I love you, Barrett."

I do not avoid places where we might converge. Instead, I look for you in crowded spaces for the chance to see your face.

I do not curse you and wish you karmic revenge. Instead, I wish for you nothing less than love and inner peace.

Do I still love you?
The answer is always the same.
I love you for reasons you could not possibly conceive.

I should have realized
from all of the half-filled
coffee cups that
you’d leave everything
unfinished.

I just wanted to be the sunlight
that woke you up in the morning,
the warmth you wouldn’t mind
slipping through the curtains.
But I suppose it’s enough
for me to be
the memory
you hope to forget.