With the sun on my face and the current to my back, I’m trying desperately to compensate for everything I lack since you disappeared. This feeling is so familiar now, so accustomed to that I fear it’s become apparent permanently in my eyes the way age marks a face.
The wind repeats your fabrications, filling the space with whispers that drift on the breeze like an explosion of dandelion seeds; it echoes your voice, murmuring in my ear exactly the words I’ve been dying to hear all this time. But I know the kind of hate a lie breeds and fucked if I can’t recall the way my pulse accelerated every time your skin neared mine.
You’ve made me feel insignificant and small too many times and all I can think about is how the same hands that used to search for yours now fight the urge to wrap themselves around your throat every time you open your charming little mouth.
The trees outside my window make shadows on my walls, claws reaching in to drag me to hell in the night, and maybe you’re right to say that’s what I deserve; I know I feel too much and I know I’m too good at holding a grudge, that’ll always be true, but you’ve got a lot of goddamn nerve if you still think my weakness is you.
I’m seventeen years old, the world is in my clutches and I’m fucking sick of being told I’m too young to know what I want. I miss seeing the moon so bright it sets the world on fire with white light paler than my own skin. I miss mistaking Venus for a star and sitting on the hood of your car with my knees pulled up to my chest, digging in so hard my heartbeat radiates in my kneecaps like a constant drum beat of arresting disappointment. I miss clear starry skies but I can never look outside anymore without the eye of a storm breathing down my fucking neck and feeling like the whole world is crumbling to shit around me.
You collected my happy memories, taking everything from me the way you tried to steal my virtue for a souvenir, but I’m not afraid anymore. You can’t walk all over me now like you did before; I want to be myself again. I'm taking back my smile and my ability to laugh because I forgot how to find things funny when you made me the joke. You threw the spoken knives and I just moved aside to let you twist the handle. These scars are a piece of me now, and I won’t feel guilty about taking the rest of the pieces back. They were never yours to claim in the first place.
Created: Jul 20, 2010Document Media