you know i can’t go a day without someone telling me they’ve seen you. how upsetting is that. that they feel obligated to tell me about you because they know i still care.

i’ve unfollowed you on instagram but i still find myself going to your page every night before i go to sleep even though it’s on private. why do i keep refreshing it. why do i keep going back to it. it’s like i’m expecting something different. that’s weird. you have that same effect on me.

goddamnit. there is a world out there that we could’ve built together, you and me. imagine that. the two of us using our hands to make something beautiful. like the time we were in bed and you told me to close my eyes while you felt me. “i want to surprise you.” i remember that shit. i loved that shit. feeling your hands work their way over my skin, not knowing where they’d travel to next. someone talked to me about buddhism the day after and when they mentioned nirvana all i could think of was that.

but imagine how good all of it would’ve been. i’d tell you that there are millions of oceans i want to swim in and you’d make them out of your palms. you’d tell me that there are millions of pan-fried grilled cheeses you want to eat and i’d use my hands to sculpt them like food of the gods. and at night i’ll kiss the magic out of your fingers.

i wonder what you tell people when they ask you what happened to us. i’m pretty sure you don’t tell them that you destroyed the world that never was. i’m pretty sure you make me seem like the bad guy. yeah i let you go but i only did that because i wanted to hate you more than i did.

i think you are full of shit. there are better things i can find in my trash can. the sad thing is even with gloves on i don’t feel like digging through it.


i think i have washed my skin enough times to say today that my body is completely free of your fingerprints. it’s been exactly two months and six days since you’ve touched me last and i think that’s more than enough time. i think you’re off me.

are you out of my system though. why am i still having dreams about you. why am i still writing about you. i know we studied anatomy together but i don’t recall getting to the part about heartstrings. maybe you did though. maybe you went behind my back like the liar you are and read ahead. learned how to tie heartstrings in a knot so fucking hard to undo. that’s what you did isn’t it. you probably snuck that trick in while we were in bed and i was vulnerable didn’t you. maybe that’s why it feels like you’re still in me.

you know. i see right through you. you think i don’t but i do. you think you hold so much power over me but i know i hold just the same amount of power over you. what on earth do you do when you slide your skinny arms through the arms of the windbreaker i got you for your birthday. you think i don’t know that you wear that shit almost everyday to class even though it’s been two months and six days since you’ve touched me last. oh but i do. i know you think of me at least once a day. when you put it on or when you take it off. i don’t know but i know i’m there. i know i’m still in your goddamned system you liar. you act like i don’t faze you but i fucking know i do. i know you still check my instagram. i know you still watch my stories. i know you still read my poetry. the ones that i wrote for you when i was so close to falling in love with your system. the ones you copied and pasted into your phone notes so that even though you deleted my messages for girl #23 to never see you can still read my poetry. locked up. hidden away somewhere where #23 won’t ever get to. especially if you leave her. she’ll never get to you.

is it not crazy that the last traces you have of my fingerprints were on that windbreaker. is it not crazy that you put it on almost everyday. do you remember when i touched the backs of your ears and you told meĀ holy shit nobody’s ever made me feel that way before. how i left my fingerprints there. i wonder if you sit in the library thinking about the work you haven’t gotten to yet. if you let your hands move ever so absentmindedly to the spots behind your ears that you know only i’ve gotten to. does girl #23 know?

you are not the last person i’ve kissed. i’m grateful. there are lips more deserving of my human anatomy. i know i’ve always cared about your education but for the first time i’m so fucking glad you failed a course.


was it really three months ago from today that we met for the first time. has it really been that long since i texted you on the second floor of the gcc library and asked you where you were. “come find me” i typed. only to have you respond in .5 seconds “i’m actually staring at you right now. i see that you’re wearing maroon.” you walking over to me and me hitting you against your chest. “are you really wearing your spider-man shirt? just to woo me huh?” that little walk to your remedial math class (lol, if i loved anything about you the best, it was the fact that you were so not into school) and your little backwards walk as you watched me walk away from you after doing that stupid thing tall boys do when they hug a girl shorter than 5’3″ that thing where they press their chins to the top of her head.

god, i hate you. i hate that i don’t fucking hate you. i hate that it’s been three months and i’m still writing about your lanky ass.

ugh. can i get a round of applause for you though. a standing ovation for you though. congratulations on your ability to stick the fuck to a strong girl’s mind. see she may be independent and fast and witty and brave but you still manage to find your ways through the little nicks in her head. i hate that i try to search up something on my instagram and your name is still the first name that pops up in my search bar. hate that the last time i viewed your profile was two hours ago. hate that i still check to see if you’ve changed your photo on whatsapp. damn now it’s back to that underwater silhouette selfie. why do i still care.

i’m like. lowkey laughing. i’m like. wondering how you’ll look back at your 19th birthday. remember when you spent your first 20 minutes of being 19 on the phone with me. a girl who you claimed would be your “last relationship” because you were “in this for the long run.” i fucking hate that i’m still writing about you but i don’t at the same time because you still manage to get these kinds of reactions out of me but these kinds of reactions help me with my art. i’m tired of using my art to write such fancy shmancy “i’m so in love” bullshit how about some realshit pulled out of the creative can still dripping in finessed anger and a pent up “how could you. i still can’t believe you.”

yeah. how could you. i still can’t believe you. fucked me up so bad i can’t kiss a guy without comparing their lips to yours. the way they move their head in time with mine. why aren’t they slow and steady like you. why don’t they take their time like you. remember. that one morning when i was driving to school and you called me telling me about a stupid dream you had. about how you wished i was in bed next to you when you woke up. i wish i could have said “you’ll still be coming up in my dreams months from now. fuck you. fuck you right now. fuck you tomorrow. fuck you on january 10th. i don’t know why you had to fuck me up so bad.”

but instead. i said. “i wish i was in bed with you too.”