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 me 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.”

dear matthew.

it is december 29. i have not written about you in over a month.

to be honest i still miss your body. it fit so well with mine. bare skin and all.

but in the past month that i’ve not given you any words i have come to realize that that’s all i miss of you. just the way you fit with me physically. the way your hair felt in between my fingers. your lips against my shoulder. your hands in between my thighs.

i’ve been doing perfectly well without your late-night conversations. now that i think about it we barely even had conversations. i knew a lot about you but you barely knew anything about me. i wonder if you ever thought i would write about you like this.

i’ve heard things about you you know. that you are talking to a new girl. that you are about to drop her because she’s almost hitting the one month mark. to be honest i wish i knew who she was. not so that i can warn her to be careful when it came to you. but so that i can be there for her when she starts to feel the sting from your unexplained absence. i wish i could have been there for all of the girls you did that to the same way some of them were there for me.

i don’t hate you. i don’t think i ever will. i’m leaving you in this year though. and i want you to know that i’m not going to forget about you. i mean how could i ever forget that andrew garfield demeanor. even the way you whispered sweet nothings in my ear was so andrew-like. as if i was in bed with andrew himself.

but hey. that’s the only reason why i liked you. because you looked like him. because you sounded like him. you didn’t really have much to offer other than that anyway.

hope you like that sting.

right now i am at my writing desk. i am wearing a dress that flows all the way to my ankles and a belt that is squeezing the air out of me, i have just finished writing a congratulations letter to a friend to honor his college graduation, i am wondering how much money i have in my bank account.

there is coelho’s manuscript on my head pillow. it is full of dog-eared pages and my fingerprints. i’m looking at it now and wondering whether i’ll ever be comfortable with writing in books. i don’t think i’ll ever be. i’m thinking now about books, books that i’ve read, books that i need to read, and more importantly books that i’ll write. i’m thinking two years into the future now, where i’m hugging my parents at my college graduation, telling them that before we fly to japan i want them to read my first finished book, my dad is telling me you know, i never thought you were serious about making writing your career, but here you are, and there you will be. i’m holding my diploma and i’m thinking about graduate school and my first day of teaching at my university.

i’m thinking now: does any of this stuff matter? is it not crazy that i’m spending every minute of my todays dreaming about the future when all of it can be lost in an instant? that i can step outside and get whacked in the head by a flying concrete block or flattened and killed immediately by an oncoming truck? that i can go to the doctor’s tomorrow and come home with a booklet titled how to cope with throat cancer? that i can spend my whole life working for a graduate degree only to never make it that far?

i’m thinking now: rayn. how i’ve had about two interactions with him my whole life and how he still managed to leave an impact. how i remember that smiling face in the cafeteria lunch line asking the ladies for spicy chicken. how i remember him asking if i needed any help with carrying the recycling bin. how i remember the day his picture was everywhere. on my facebook. on my twitter. in my e-mails. how i remember only one word running through my mind. drowned. reading an article on his parents talking about how much they loved him. how they were about to buy him his first car. how he was so excited to start high school.

how he never got to.

i’m thinking, you know what. i spend so much of my time worrying about things that might not even matter years from now. people who are not worth my time and energy. there is a boy up there who is happier than he was here but i’m sure he wishes time to time that he could have a taste of spicy chicken one more time. that he could speak his mind today about how we are under a president who doesn’t believe that recycling is necessary because “climate change does not exist” (oh i would love to see him speak up on this). that he could kiss his parents goodnight one more time. that he could drive for the first and be a freshman for the first.

i have never spoken about him until today. but i do think about him often. i think about him especially when my mind wanders off to how easy it is to lose all of this. how a lot of people take their lives for granted. when there are hundreds of people each day who wish that it wasn’t their time yet they are taken by death anyway.

death. hm. i like to believe that he is some sort of god. that when he walks the earth he knows with each step just how powerful he is. i want to tell him when i meet him that i have gained so much respect for him. that i am not afraid of him. in fact. i feel quite the opposite.

there is a manuscript on my bed and i think to myself, maybe this will be the first one i’ll write in. fuck the belt around my waist, i’ll take it off. fuck the amount of money i have in my bank account. i’m taking my pen and scribbling into the margins: there is so much to live for. there is so much to live. there is so much to life. i will not take this for granted. i will not be afraid.

my pre-writing ritual goes like this always. i sit. either at my desk or on my bed. i cannot write while standing, i wonder if it has something to do with brain to finger waves. i think, i don’t think i’ll ever have the time to look up the science of it. speaking of finger waves, next. i look at my fingers. examine each one to see which is the least bitten. which is the least torn up. i pick my target and i start ripping. skin off skin off skin off skin. everything and anything off. my goal is to get lucky and draw blood. if i am extra lucky there is a lot of it. the more blood i draw the more i am inspired.

after i am done wiping my hands clean i open my laptop and get to typing. like so. before coming here i had drawn blood from ripping skin so deep i had dark red trickling down to my left wrist. i love it. sometimes i wonder why i never question why i was created a masochist.

mirranda. i feel like i tell a lot of people things but only very few people know how softly i am in love with you. and i am tired of keeping that softness unheard of. i am tired of keeping it in the dark. i get 12 visitors a day on average on this wordpress and i want those 12 today to know that i am in love with you. with all that you are. with all that you have grown. from a flower to a whole garden in the span of a year and two months. i’m in love with it all.

there are some days we go where we do not talk at all. we don’t need to. i think, we can go a whole year without talking and that wouldn’t change what i feel for you. it is beyond actions. beyond words. beyond needing to be watered daily. i could lay a 40 mL watering can at your doorstep. wait a whole two years and 33 days. come back and see that it has not been touched. but what we have is still growing. but i’d take that watering can and spread it thinly over us anyway. just for the love of it.

i love you. i think, andrew garfield once told jesse eisenberg, you’re my best friend. come. let’s get married and live in a house together. mirranda. let’s get married and live in a house together. i will not buy you roses. i will buy you a flower shop. and then we can grow more in the backyard. if i were to assign a flower to you. it would be the ipomoea alba. its common name is moonflower. because i know how much you love the moon. now. isn’t that weird. you know i love sunflowers the best. moonflowers sunflowers. you complement me.

you are one of my soulmates. i think, in another world, we might’ve been together. sharing more colors in cars parked in front of hotel tennis courts. saying that we can’t see even though we can see how many fingers the other is holding up from ten feet away. what more of two feet away between seats. dropping love poems off at each others’ works. sitting underneath the stars and talking until the sky starts to pink. holding hands during sad scenes in movies.

in this world we have a connection unlike any other. i think, there are hundreds of thousands of people on this island, and i happen to run into you. we have touched on religion before in our year and two months, so you won’t be surprised when i say that i believe god played a role in this. god, or whatever deity happens to be the controller of the universe, said at one point: i’m going to bring these two together. i think, god. deity. i’ve done a lot of bad things in my 20 years. and i am thrown off whenever something good comes my way. but this by far is something i didn’t think i deserved. my fingers. if they could talk. they’d say. bleeding and torn up and all. that they still don’t understand. but they are eternally grateful.

at this point i don’t care where we end up. at this point. i don’t care. we have a garden and i love walking out at night after throwing wood into the fire to see how much we’ve grown. i adore you. i am not going to apologize for not writing about you on here for those 12 visitors to see every other day. i’m going to apologize that they will never understand what we have. they could never. not our colors. not our poetry. not our hands. those are for only us to hold.

so no. the final say here is. i love you more. i think i always will.

i have read before. countless times. about how there exist kisses that are poison. that once you get kisses like those. poison will spread through your veins like fire. kisses from matthew were like that. they left me feeling like my insides were ashes and dust. like i had burnt myself out because i had not known that his lips were matches.

i did not read. not once. about how there exist words that are poison. i found that out the hard way. when you said

i knew you stopped loving me when you stopped writing about me.

i wondered. what is this feeling. it is not fire but ice. from the center of my heart to the ends of my goddamned fingertips. this. this is a different kind of poison.

i know you have been avoiding my blog because you do not want to accept that i am capable of writing poetry for other people. but if you are reading this i want you to hear me out. i don’t have much time okay. my fingers are going numb from this poison and i am wondering how long it will take for me to find an antidote. i think this will take the time it spent for me to heal from matthew times a thousand. he did not get to ingrain himself in my heart the way you did. you and i. we were years and we are still in the making and he was but a month.

hear me out. i never stopped loving you. i don’t just stop loving people because i don’t think i am capable of that. i am capable of writing poetry for other people but i am not capable of falling out of love with someone who i wrote a book for. there is blood. leaking out of my ears. my nose. the sides of my mouth. the poison it is working and it is numbing me down to the bone.

i love you. i am tired of having to repeat myself for you to get that through your head. there is poison. and it is so fucking cold. it is ice and it is numbing me down to the bone. i am not sure how long it’ll take for me to lose my capability to write but just know that i love you. i always will.

sometimes. when i am in bed. during the quiet hours. you know my quiet hours more than anyone in the world because i used to wake you up so you could spend them with me. even when you were cranky because it was so early. even when we fell asleep just an hour before. i think about you. i think about th