"Women like me do not fall gracefully,
we stumble over our spines, trip over
our vowels, and collapse into your arms.
Our hearts are open books,
Russian novels containing fifty pages
on the way your voice drifts across
the telephone wires each night.
Our hearts are first drafts,
unedited verses about each and every
person we have ever loved: the stranger
on the subway, the girl who gave us a balloon,
the boy who stole our virginity
but not our heart.
Women like me will love you from a distance
of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed,
we will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible,
and when we leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people."
by M.K. Wilde, Katrina
You asked me for my deepest darkest secret. A secret I'd told no other living soul.
What I think you may not understand about secrets is that those type are not down in the depths without reason. They aren't there to whip out at cocktail parties or ballet lessons or even at 3AM in the bed of your best friend who you tell most-everything to. They are absent for a reason.
I think when you asked for this secret you meant to ask for my vulnerability, but what you asked for is more than that, and you need to understand this.
Because the kind you asked for is so ugly that you do not even tell it to yourself. It's something you know is there - you can feel the weight - but you cannot look it squarely in the face. That's why it's kept underneath.
Someone somewhere once said ignorance is bliss and I believe them, because once you know the deepest darkest part of someone, you cannot forget. So I can tell you things I have told only five, two, even one other person, but don't you dare ask for more.
You cannot handle dark and deep. This is what you need to understand.
S.
I can see right past your fake thick skin
You've been writing about me again
My lips you swore off as a sin
But sweet temptation took you in.
My skin is thin, I do admit
Your every touch still bruises it
Still, my dead heart's fire was re-lit
So as to grant me one last kiss.
S.
I'll see the whole world over before I see the day you lay yourself at my feet and say you're sorry for all the nights you kept me guessing. For all the days you didn't tell me the whole truth. For every time you watched me spell 'I love you' with my eyes, but pretended you were blind.
I'll see the whole world over before you'd think to call. Before you'd think to tell me about your new life, and job, and the girl you met at the bar who you 'guess is your girlfriend now'. Before you'd think to ask how much of you is still beating through my veins and know I'm lying when I tell you none.
I'll see the whole world over but you'll still be the seven wonders wrapped into one. You'll still be a country road on a clear night when every single star in heaven can be seen. Still two arms tight around my waist that no landmark or brown-eyed stranger can erase.
And I can see the whole world over but I'll never find a place where you don't reach me still. You have tainted a world you've never seen with kisses I've never felt, and I'm not sure Earth is big enough for both of us.
I promise if there's a way to Mars, I'll take it.
S.
It's still not real, Andy.
I'm still praying to a God I'm not totally convinced in that you'll find your way home. That you'll walk in from this longwinded joke; a sideways grin overtop your apology.
I hate how longwinded you've let this joke get.
I hate how the last time I saw you I cut it short to go read a book when I should have gone down to the ocean with you.
I hate how people use past tense to talk about your smile now. How your embraces were enough to turn a bad day into something magic. How your laugh was the centerpiece in a crowded room.
Everyday is full of you, but it's an empty-full. You left, and yet, I'm not sure how to rid of you from everything I see and touch and hear.
You left and we're all trying to live without the sun but it's gotten a little too cold to bear.
Please come home now.
S.
