I had pictured that I would be strong enough to leave without remorse,
as I had to "challenge my prospects of life",
like everyone would say,
I needed to smoke out who I really was,
and not find myself crawling back to you,
but it was after I had packed up my life into small obsolete card-board boxes,
that I realized how trivial and small I really was.

I felt so alone.

I longed to feel the familiar shape of your body pressed up against mine,
to wake to your bright hazel eyes,
to the smell of your mango shampoo engolfing my senses,
to hear your breath harmonize with mine,
and to intertwine our legs into a maze that neither of us could escape from.

I missed you.

But you disconnected from me,
and when I rolled towards the middle of the bed,
and found it empty and alone,
experiencing for the first time that the receptivity of our hearts had grown apart,
like the un-uniformity of a puppeteer getting tired of old dolls,
and cutting the strings of the marionette,
at the perfect spot,
in order for me to feel the pain and deceptively obvious sadness,
of not wanting you to leave.

With you gone, I feel as though my world stopped.
Cliché as how I always thought that I would be the one to leave you,
but I was wrong.

I had hoped that you loved me,
and that that distant gleam I would see in your eyes,
was just you daydreaming about a world,
where you would not be able to hold your hand in mine.

I had hoped that one day I could take you home,
taking the three hour drive in your broken maroon car,
and have my parents beam with the fact that I had found someone,
with my brother murmuring under his breath,
that you looked "homeless" because your gorgeous long locks and band shirts,
that I suppose did not appear to appease him.
We would laugh about it later.

I had hoped that even though I knew all these things,
that at least you would care about my attached feelings,
and that you would not toss them away to the sharks,
in order to dance another dance with another girl,
someone prettier and who can tell better jokes,
who can make you smile and someone who completes the part of you,
that I guess I was never able to fill,
who you hoped would envelope the empty whole,
in your heart.

I wonder what it is like to been seen.

To be a regular at a coffee cafe,
where all the baristas know your order,
and they always have your grande nonfat extra shot white mocha ready for you,
with your name written on it in scratchy calligraphy,
when you walk through the door at 8:44 in the morning.

To be a drop dead beauty queen,
to walk down the street in the middle of the day,
with perfect hair and a dazzling smile,
and to have everyone turn to look at you as you go,
and to say "Wow, she sure is something special".

To be someone's everything,
who knows all of your little secerts and special quirks,
who can cheer you up with a stupid joke or a sappy love song,
someone your parents would approve of,
someone to love you till the day you die,
to have them look at you and breathe out a sigh,
and wonder how they ever lived a day with your body laying next to theirs.

I simply wonder what it is like to be anything at all.

Somedays I wake up,
and I pray to whatever is above me,
whether it be God or something else beyond my comprenesion,
isn't there to wake me up.

Somedays, I lay there,
In my bed,
surrounded by the warm layers of fabric that seem to hold me together,
and wish that they would just curl tighter around me,
and constrict me closer into myself,
and pray that they can gently convince my lungs to stop working,
so I can just not wake up.

Somedays, I wonder,
Just gazing around me,
If i can just stop the clock, and stay right where I am,
safe and sound comfortable in myself,
away from all of the anxiety I feel as it would
rise and fall in my chest and bury itself with the confides of my stomache,
and all the other nitches that it can find,
and I dream of not waking up

Somedays, I win.
Somedays, I lose.

I usually lose.

And I find myself uncurling from my happy prison of warmth,
and I feel my feet on the cold hardwood floors,
sighing as I run my finger thrugh my ***** hair,
wondering, not praying
how I ever was able to wake up.