you made me write

you made me want to write

more than i ever have.

not just because you wrote too,

and not because i wished i could have

tattooed your poetry on myself,

have it linger on my tongue,

and iron brand it onto my brain.

but no,

you made me want to write

out of passion,

and love:

a raging, aching, pulsing, burning, biting, tearing, cutting

love.

and i wanted to take my time with it,

like i did with you;

torture myself the way you tortured

my young and innocent heart.

so rather than waste my time

trying to make every single line

i wrote have a rhyme-

cause this was real-

i felt for you.

i felt for you in the way the way that i

snuffled when you were sick,

or felt betrayed when your friends hurt you,

and in the way that i lay my body pillow parallel to me

every night and reached for it because i

hoped it was you

and hoped i would feel your sweater

brushing up right beside me.

then i would have smelled the alcohol on your lips,

the weed on your fingertips,

and the lies that wreaked from behind your eyes.