I already regret writing this. And I know I probably will write about this like it was your fault, like I didn’t know better, like everything inside me didn’t scream you were dangerous. Like I didn’t look at you and see caution red tape. Maybe it’s what drew me to you, the sound of the imminent storm. I will write about this like the truth isn’t that I’ve always found comfort in ruins, forgetting the fact that silence has always sent me chasing after the violence in hurricanes.
The truth is I am always making a crime scene out of love, out of myself, because as much as I want things that are soft, I am a magnet to sharks, what I should say is that I cut myself in the water, so maybe it’s really all on me. Yeah, I’m a terrible cliché, I really do have the worst taste in men. But the truth is you and I, we had a dirty kind of hunger, we were all city lights in the dark on the wrong side of town. Maybe it’s because we both had a penchant for vehement touch.
I keep writing about you like there was a me and you, but in reality there never was. It doesn’t take away from the fact that you and I – we were beautiful. Painful, yes, but beautiful. Dirty, yes, and it may have felt right, but you and I we were so wrong. It didn’t stop me from loving you, from letting you make a ruined city out of my heart, from going back for more, from pouring all this kerosene over my skin and letting you strike the match.
But if I’m going to be honest, there’s something broken in me, something that’s always been addicted to being wrecked, something that’s always loved to the point of ruin. And yes, I believe in love, but I’ve never known it to be a good thing. Yes, I believe in love, but I’ve never known it to come without a fist, without a knife. Yes, I believe in love, but I’ve never known it not to fall apart. Yes, I believe in love, but I’ve never known it to be mine – this is where you come in.
I loved you. Someone who only ever held my hand after sundown, behind a locked a door and closed curtains. I loved someone who made me feel ashamed. Someone who never chose me, years and years, again and again. The truth is no one has ever made me feel as dirty as you. Towards the end all I ever thought about when I was with him were your hands. And the truth is all I’ve ever been is your longest kept dirty, deep, dark secret.
Do you think about me when she kisses you, do you feel her tongue on your lips and wish for my teeth? I hope you do. I hope you wake up in the morning and wonder how differently your pillow would look if it was my long hair trailing over your pillow. That you put your face to her neck and miss my scent. I hope it’s killing you. I wish I could say I wished you both well.
It’s like this song I heard after leaving your house once about gravity and about (please) letting go. But there’s something still lit inside of me that makes me feel like you’ve still got this pull on me. And I don’t know how long it’s been but I feel like you were just here. Like I’ve yet to shut the front door. It’s thoughts of your hands, my lips, your mouth, my skin. And there’s an aching for something not here. A longing for something hollowed out from my body. And there’s scars from burns, still, spawned by your fingertips. I pretend I never loved you, I’m afraid I always will. It’s poems I write about last goodbyes, the writing, the lying, that makes it easier not to think if you really wanted to you’d be here.
Right now I am tired to clinging on to things that never were. I am. I’m done being the one who doesn’t leave, the one who stays rolling around the ashes of the things we never were, the things we could have been. I’m so over this shit. Right now I am calling this my last goodbye.