Duplicitious

i don't know what it means when you say you don't know what i mean. the implications of my every sentence stain the atmosphere like neon lights and i'm left wondering how you can still be so clueless. how after all this time. after all the sentences we traded with each other. after every minute that makes the miles smaller. you still don't get it. how you could still not get me. this is the part where i need to remind myself that you were never mine. you've never been anyone's because there isn't a sentence simple enough to make you stay so three words and eight letters won't leave you breathless in between my bed sheet

You remind me of every mistake I was too afraid to make. I don't know where this leaves me now. This is like standing in front of your living room window and watching all the seasons slip by in the course of a moment. Forever gone in less than a second. I don't know if you've noticed yet, but time simply makes everything seem fleeting until we've already forgotten what we promised we'd never forget. It's funny how selective our memories become. How the past clouds over until it's nearly impossible to distinguish the shapes of the feelings that were once so familiar or the outline of your smile—the sound of your voice. It all fades. Then

i hated you because you could keep quiet when i couldn't, and the careful nature you held onto until the precise & perfect moment. it was all i could do not to explode but i was still fire and spread slow, slick & smooth beneath your skin and i kept my tongue still firmly in my mouth not letting anything escape save for tiny breaths that i was sure weren't enough to keep my lungs satisfied and the fire spread until i was wildfire and my bones were kindling and you just sat there keeping quiet while i burned alive. wondering when you would ever speak.

sometimes, it's morning. and i've forgotten to brush my hair again. or how to tie my shoes or what my name sounds like. and that i don't believe in anything anymore. and that's when i realize that i'm losing little pieces of myself to you. and the tip of my tongue is stained with the taste of stale paint from the renovating you've done with my mind. and for the next four hundred and seventy three and a half hours i'll be staring at the ceiling. since i'm waiting for your flavor to fade. or maybe i'm just waiting for you to come back to me. since my fingertips are losing their feeling. and the strands of my hairs are splitting. i'm aging in r

I'm terrified and I know there's nothing unique about this, but I'm standing here completely out of touch with the rest of the world, realizing for the first time that we all feel things a little bit differently, which is why this doesn't hurt for you at all. I figure the only logical reason for how you could do this as if it means nothing was if it really did mean nothing at all for you. It's easier to hate you this way. It's easier to forget you without the burn of your kiss against my skin. It's easier to stay mad if I don't have to remember the way that it felt. Most of all, I can forget this as if it's a memory in someone else's lifetime

never fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother. he will be too gentle with your lips, too sincere when he whispers blessings into your ears pleading that he doesn't deserve you. his tongue will not slither between your teeth. instead, the heat of his mouth will melt your scar tissue until there is no trace of your travels. never fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother. he knows patience. you will try to convince him that it is one of the many virtues you don't yet possess, but he will dig through the flesh in your ribcage until he finds it lodged beneath everything you're too scared to confess. he will teach you forg