Dear Forget-Me-Not
do you remember
how you used to laugh
your head thrown back
teeth shining, tongue wild
or perhaps you remember
the screams of tears
the begging not to leave
your nose red, chest heaving
they remember
and they want you to remember too
when you told him you loved the sun and the stars
when he said he loved you too
they want you to remember
sleepovers, concerts, summer days
your birthday cake, your family dinner
your shining teeth and heaving chest
your happiness, your carefreeness, your ability to love
your fear, your desperation, your giving up
don’t stop remembering the past
when you’re living in the future
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Him
Love has a way of demanding to be seen. They say a person needs an average of thirteen touches per day to feel loved. That's why I assumed you loved me. Every facial caress, every stroke of the arm. People say actions speak louder than words, and you never were one for talking. They say you can't love anyone unless you love yourself first. I have never loved myself. But I loved you so much I forgot what hating myself felt like. When you told me I was the reason you bled from your wrists every night, I felt the numbness seep in like a suffocating fog. Blades haven't kissed my inner wrists because I'm too much of a coward. I don't know how to show you that I'm in pain, too. I was a fragile china doll when we first met, and now you use the pieces of my broken china doll heart as a pedestal for your own self-worth. You call me a liar, but you used your court jester smile as a façade for the angry person you truly are. Your harsh words opened a floodgate of doubts that lassoed and reeled me in. I don't trust anyone, believing that kind words are a skin that evil intentions bear. And when I see you with her I don't wish to be with the man that I see giving her daily thirteen touches, but with the man that whispered promises of happily ever after’s. My friends tell me to move on, but seeing you in every face, hearing you in every laugh, makes that nearly impossible. It's hard to believe that one stupid boy opened a Pandora's box filled with the inner demons I thought I had rid of years ago. It's hard to believe that…that… I can't say it. I can't admit to myself that I have it. A disease of the mind, an ailment of the heart. I don't want it. Take it back! I want to be myself again, not this bruised shell with a hallowed smile. Not this weak pile of flesh and bones. I know I have friends, but I've never felt so incredibly lonely. I know people love me, but I've never felt so alone. No, I'm fine really. Just tired. Physically drained. Emotionally exhausted. One minute I think I'm fine and then I see you and it seems like everything disappears and I can't help it I still love you and I want to be with you even though you haunt my nightmares when I can finally fall asleep—and then you disappear, and the world finally comes back into focus. I'm happy. I'm strong. I'm—DEPRESSION. There I said it. Now it's not just about you but about everything. It's not just you I see at my worst moments, but all my failures taking on the form of elongated shadows and faceless monsters, spiderwebbing across my thoughts like a cracked windshield. I don't want to come to school, but if I don't I'll let them down. I don't want responsibility, but I should feel honored that you'd consider me for that undertaking. I want… I want… My life back. I want to be able to pick myself back up again. I want to go back to the beginning of this summer, when I didn’t have to pretend to be okay. I want to be left alone. I'm angry and ashamed. I'm going through the five stages of grief. A part of me died that evening, and you don't seem to notice. My personality attracts toxic guys like a warm, welcoming light attracts moths. I'm grabbing for anything; anyone. But nothing's there. I feel like I'm drowning. I want my old self back, but she's buried so far underground that I don't know if she'll find her way out again. I may recover, but I'll never be the same. I may forgive, but seeing you will always cause my right hand to quake. I may move on, but I'll never forget. I'm sorry if this speech offends you, but if you can write songs about the girl that messed you up, then I can write a poem about the boy that killed my spirit.
By Kira Nichole6 years ago in Poets
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Engulfing Light
I have not been very successful in quieting my mind this evening. I find that as time goes by, I find myself in deeper contemplation, in regards to the purpose of my life. I can say with certainty, that thus far, I have had a life, that with all things considered, has been a well lived one.
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