Tag: moving on

the past is
the past is passed.
and i know i need to stop
looking through the binoculars backwards,
but for some reason
i keep seeing little flecks of you
in the glass when i look through my windshield, 
and i wonder if it’s your reflection from behind me. 

i see you laughing. i want to 
be the reason for that laugh,
to be next to you so i can hear it.
but i know it’s
something she said
that’s so funny,
and that you’ve already forgotten
the way i snort when i laugh.
she doesn’t snort when she laughs.
i wonder if you like that better. 

i wonder if  you wish you could hear me
laughing too. 
i wonder if you’ll see a photo of me in a hot air balloon
in August and wish you had been there to hold my  hand
as i looked over the edge because you know 
my fear of falling 
from great heights.

checking up on an ex will only bring pain, i promise. // a.s.m

i assured myself his eyes
would always search for me
in the cracks between the pavement
and his ears would listen for me
when the wolves
howled at night.
but now i know
he’s filled those cracks
with softer skin and
while the wolves
howl, his ears are full
of her laughter,
and so
it doesn’t
even
matter.
i am nothing
to him anymore.
and so a piece of me dies.
i am a little less
of who i was before.

does a piece of me die every time someone stops loving me? // a.s.m

Fenton

i walked to the river today–

the one we hiked to 
on
our first date.

I sat in the flowers,
the same ones I sat in when

you looked at me like

I was something

you’d never seen before

and asked me what music I liked.

I walked to the river today–the one
you and I got lost

trying to find.

I hiked the trail to 
the rock where
you told me I was beautiful

for the first time.

Do you still hear my laugh

in the ripples of the river?
Do you still listen for me

when the trees sing like the rain?

Because despite all the time that’s passed,
I still see your eyes in the summer grass

between my fingers, 
and these
waters will always 
whisper your name.

It’s that much easier for you to suffocate me now that your hands aren’t in mine.

because if i’m not holding your hands then they’re around my neck, and every time you smile without me hurts a little bit

Rehab

I’d shoot you up,
swallow you whole with
a glass of orange juice
in the morning—
inhale you
during my lunch breaks.

I thought that I needed you. 

Now my sheets are drenched
in all the words you’ve ever said and 
my eyes roll back to replay
your smile until it distorts
into a sneer.
And I can smell your sweat. 
I can taste your lips. 
I can taste the milk going sour. 

You are leaking out of
the bullet holes—out of
all of my pores—but
I know this
is part of getting clean. 

But I’m Doing Okay

When I walked away from you, I didn’t realize I was going to feel so alone for so long. I didn’t know that people would reach out to me, and I’d still feel like I was drowning. I did not know that my insides would not grow back around the hole you left; that I would never fully heal.
That there would always be this scar. 

When I walked away from you, I didn’t expect to ever again laugh so hard my eyes teared up. I didn’t think I’d ever have the courage to bare my naked soul to anyone again– to tear open a still healing wound.
But I have
surrounded myself with light, and in some ways I feel more free than I ever have. 

When I walked away from you, you insisted it wasn’t mutual.
But I know I did what was best for both of us.
You couldn’t fully invest in your relationship if I was around, and I would never be able to have a relationship with anyone if I kept you in my life. 

When I walked away from you, I did not think I would love again.
I have.
And I will love again after him.
You are no longer my most recent heart break. You are no longer my muse. And in some ways I am so thankful for this, because you are fading farther and farther into the distance, like you are on shore, and I am sailing away. Soon I won’t be able to see you at all. 

Closure

When you walked out
of my heart, you left
the door wide open.
I poured my soul out
on a paper plane
and chucked it through the
fragile frame,
hoping you’d read the words:
“Please come home.”

I sat for weeks, waiting for you
to close the gaping hole
you carelessly left;
for you to walk through and
apologize for letting the bugs in, you hadn’t meant to, it was a mistake.
but you never did,
so I got up and closed
the damn door myself.

Miss Scarlett In The Ballroom With The Lead Pipe

I washed the sheets four times (once
for every year you dreamt beside me)
before your smell
no longer lingered. 

I deleted all of your
voice messages on my phone, but
they still replay 
in my dreams some nights, and
I will always know your texts by heart. 

I put all your clothes I gathered over the years, tangible
bits and pieces of you, into a garbage bag
and donated them, but 
I still wake up on cold mornings wishing I had 
that black jacket of yours. 

I tore apart 
every picture of us, and still 
it took me too long to be able to 
convince myself there was no missing
half in all those photos of just me. 

I have flipped it so many times, and yet
I cannot get the imprint of 
you out of my memory
foam mattress. The outline of your body
etched in chalk on a crime scene.