(no subject)
i have begun to think love is a tragedy.
he used to be such a sweet boy; escorting me to my junior prom with a top hat and a corsage of compliments. showing up at my door while i was out, forgetting another commitment, forcing my mother to see his defeated smile. i sat on laps of boys in his truck, smoking blunts and sub woofers replacing the rapid beating of my heart.
pounding on the window, the flash of his sad eyes and the barrel of a gun pressed to his temple. his finger trembling and my swollen tears splashing on the sizzling supermarket pavement.
my love stories always end with 911 calls and borrowed pens, the death of both affairs scribbled and tear-stained on the hood of a car.
we used to laugh at night and play slaps in our underwear, falling into the ocean of his bed and kissing goodnight.
"have you learned from this? this is what you're doing. this is what your life is becoming."
making phone calls and crumbling during each one. men who used to be brothers say "i told you so" and then thank me for saving his life. i'm not sure that i did.
my past has been coming back not in waves but in typhoons. i eat fried chicken on a couch surrounded by real strangers and strangers by choice. i don't smile, remain tight-lipped. "GET ON THE GROUND!" has pretty much killed any chance of letting anyone in ever again.
my heart is sinking like the titanic...an unexpected iceberg that freezes the veins, clawing with chewed fingernails down the planks as i'm flung into the abyss. the band keeps playing, and i, as the captain, always go down with the ship.
maybe one day a lover will dive and unearth the remnants of who i was. but the most beautiful parts are ruined, cracked, rusted and broken. the possibility of that i highly doubt.
he used to be such a sweet boy; escorting me to my junior prom with a top hat and a corsage of compliments. showing up at my door while i was out, forgetting another commitment, forcing my mother to see his defeated smile. i sat on laps of boys in his truck, smoking blunts and sub woofers replacing the rapid beating of my heart.
pounding on the window, the flash of his sad eyes and the barrel of a gun pressed to his temple. his finger trembling and my swollen tears splashing on the sizzling supermarket pavement.
my love stories always end with 911 calls and borrowed pens, the death of both affairs scribbled and tear-stained on the hood of a car.
we used to laugh at night and play slaps in our underwear, falling into the ocean of his bed and kissing goodnight.
"have you learned from this? this is what you're doing. this is what your life is becoming."
making phone calls and crumbling during each one. men who used to be brothers say "i told you so" and then thank me for saving his life. i'm not sure that i did.
my past has been coming back not in waves but in typhoons. i eat fried chicken on a couch surrounded by real strangers and strangers by choice. i don't smile, remain tight-lipped. "GET ON THE GROUND!" has pretty much killed any chance of letting anyone in ever again.
my heart is sinking like the titanic...an unexpected iceberg that freezes the veins, clawing with chewed fingernails down the planks as i'm flung into the abyss. the band keeps playing, and i, as the captain, always go down with the ship.
maybe one day a lover will dive and unearth the remnants of who i was. but the most beautiful parts are ruined, cracked, rusted and broken. the possibility of that i highly doubt.