There, I said it. But it doesn’t mean what you think it means. It doesn’t mean I want to deprive you from your friends and family. It means I want to feel like you want me to be part of your daily life just like they are. I want you to bring me to family holidays so your great aunt can ask about my name. I want you to hold my hand while we’re sitting on the couch of your grandparents house and they’re telling stories about you when you were four years old. I don’t want you to hold me. I want you to figure out how my body works and show me affection. I want your hand on my back, asking me about the scar on the back of my arm. I want you stroking my hair while you tell me all the things you think about late at night. I don’t want you to coddle me. I don’t want you to constantly text me. I just want you to tell me when you make it home so I know you’re safe for the night. I want you to tell me about the bad day you had and how you found out your grandpa has cancer. I want to know how all of this makes you feel. I don’t want be another “needy” girl to you. I want to be entirely yours, and most of all, I need to know that you are entirely mine.
You only call me when you’re drunk and I answer
every time. I shut my bedroom door behind me
so my mother doesn’t hear your voice crawl out of my phone.
In the bed next to me, my best friend sighs in her sleep
like she knows we’re playing ring-around-the-rosy
with each other’s throats again.
You only call me when you’re drunk and you say the same thing
every time. Something about regret. Something about love.
Something about their feeling the same. Something about their
You only call me when you’re drunk and I swallow my teeth
every time. I count the cracks in my ceiling. I watch drunk kids
stumble down Lexington. I toy with the idea of smoking in my room.
You only call me when you’re drunk and this is what I want to say
every time. You should have loved me while you could.
You should have loved me while you could.
Fortesa Latifi -YOU ONLY CALL ME WHEN YOU’RE DRUNK
Of course she left. She is a cosmic storm that had grown skin, bones and a heart but you just treated her like she was dust. That is what happens when you don’t recognise girls who are supernovas in disguise.
It’s so sad to me that this generations idea of romance is centered around texts. I don’t want you to just text me. I want you be curious about me, I want you to watch me and discover all of my little quirky details. I want you to sit with me in my car in the middle of the night while I yell about the bad day I had. I want to hold hands in the movies. I want little kisses between sentences. I want you to fall for me– but not for my words that appear on your phone screen. I want you to discover me.
I am flawed.
Not in a poetic
Or deeply lovable way.
I’m not waiting for someone
To fall in love
With my scars and my morning breath and my
This is not ‘I’m not like other girls’.
I am exactly like other girls
And other humans in general.
I live and I breathe and I crave attention
That I don’t know what to do with
If I ever obtain it
And I read a lot of self-help articles
Filled with advice
I don’t often follow.
I am flawed
And I am human
And I am learning.
But they don’t know it, do they? That in your head you are running so fast–away from everything and towards nothing; that in your head you are battling with giants whom even storybooks know nothing about; that in your head it is a million times more chaotic. They don’t know anything about it, do they? That’s why they don’t understand it every time you tell them how tired you are. They tell you to rest, but what they don’t understand is that there are certain things in life that ‘rest’ can’t fix–your thoughts, for example.
This is what they didn’t tell Icarus:
You are allowed to swallow the sun.
Mother, I know you’re scared of the burning in my belly and some days I am too;
there are mornings I spit out ashes in the back of the alley and pray for broken wings.
I’d rather feel embers glowing in my chest than the heavy dark that claims so many hearts:
I was not born into a grave.
Mother, sometimes that ocean seems closer than the sky and I almost forget which I’m reaching for.
I’d rather die with two eyes open and two hands searching, always searching,
than live with both feet on the ground.
we want to be ruined.
there is something that
appeals to us about being
the main character in a story
this awful. we put on our best
dresses and wait in the street.
you’ll destroy us and afterward
we’ll kiss your neck.
stop saying you care about me when you only care about how i make you feel. after all of this, still, it’s us here, and still, all you’re worried about is you.
i never got an “are you okay?” never got a “how are you?” never got a “stay.” i only got an empty apology, a “i can’t fix this because i don’t want to think about what’s wrong” apology, a “i just want to mend my guilty conscience” apology.
stop saying you won’t hurt me when every step towards you is like walking on glass. i’m choking on your empty apologies and tasting only the leftover blood of regret. every hello runs the risk of falling through. every hello and i forget about the cracks.
i know this is wrong. every time you text me, i throw my phone against the wall until i stop smiling. love isn’t these feelings we give each other. love is a choice and you’ll never choose me.