Nov. 5, 2015
All I know is you’re petite and you’re blonde. You’re an amazing, awarding winning dancer. You have big lips and piercing blue eyes. You live by the beach and you held my lovers hand before I ever got the chance to breathe in her name the night I met her.
You are everything I am not.
I, with my short olive brown hair and hazel eyes with the colors of leaves at fall. With my wide hips and hands that bare no artistic fruit that I am proud of. Who drinks to her woes and prays to the gods for comfort in her mind.
She with all her wonders is everything I wished I would’ve been in those fifteen seconds.
Not knowing her makes this harder because I don’t know what her voice sounds like. When she spoke your name did it call to you more than mine?
From the bones I gathered from your closet she was a siren; entrancing you to her ocean of pain and discomfort. As you swam back to shore she pulled you back in with her currents of lust and apologies.
She always knew how to lure you back to her depths.
It made me ponder on why my boat was never strong enough to keep you safe afloat.
Leaving me with months of staring at my wood wondering why the leaches could swim through.
That is how I thought of this when your lips touched hers. That I was only the hole struck boat in her ocean. I could only save you for so long each time.
That this body was not enough.
I was broken;
a toy thrown in the corner for recess only to be played with as comfort during class.
I couldn’t take “it”.
I still cannot take “it”.
Months of hating myself for what I wasn’t in those moments with her.
Months of thinking how it is a curse to remember every word said; every moment in your body language when you tell me you made a mistake that you fucked up and can’t take “it” back.
That you shouldn’t have cried about “it” because it made “it” seem “so much worse than it was.”
It was my stomach dropping to the floor, my heart strings ripping at the seams falling out of my chest. I’ve been dragging my organs on the ground for nine months. Nine months is enough time to where I could’ve made new life; something beautiful and wonderful but no..
I need a transplant.
I’m growing myself a new heart.
Where My love is as strong as the floorboards were.
Where my light is as bright as the lighthouse on the shore.
Saving myself; endlessly saving.