L

#20

I've spent far too long
worrying
that I'm not as real as you.
I hate those bodies
draped in fashions
proclaiming who they are
as if they have anything to really be proud of.
I'm a stupid girl
thinking that I can take years off
from feeling any of this
and come back
as if it never happened
or even better.
You were always so angry
until the little things
like the single motion
that brought
your hand
to the bottle
to your lips
to the bottle
to fucking slam upon the
table
brought you hope that life
is indeed poetic. No matter what
I do, I can never
get my bottles to hit the table
just right.
But at least I never get tired of
trying.

#19

we have trouble
coordinating
schedules
and finding a
quiet
place
where
we
can see each other
without being seen
so that there are no expectations
so that we're secret
even though we know
that everyone
knows.
You only hold my hand at night
because during the day
you find my fingers irritating.

#18

Even if what you
said is true and I'm
only "pretending"
to be nice
when underneath
the surface all I
feel is hate,
I think
it should be less
than reprehensible
that I'm playing through the pain.

#17

I'm not a poet
I'm not anything
there's no way that
I can prove
that I feel. I
can't even
hint at it in those
times when I
desperately want
someone to look me
in the eye and know.