A WARNING TO THE BOY WHO FALLS IN LOVE WITH ME:
in the first month, i will be perfect: straight hair, clean white t-shirt set of teeth, perfectly semi-slacked fists and solid knees. i will be beautiful be composed be everything your unbroken non-strained bones could wish for. boy, you will not have to worry about me. i will wake up every morning and go to sleep without crying, my promises are protrusions in my skin and i will not worry about dying.
and then i will worry if i am dying, not dying quick enough, if i should just get it over with. if surviving for ninety something years is something i can do, if you’ll even show at my funeral. when i was younger mom made certain to tuck me in tightly so i felt safety in falling asleep, goodnight forehead kisses from you feel the same. except, one night i will wake at 3am and tell you i dreamed a visit from the grim reaper himself. tears on my cheeks and shaking sheets i will whisper “he did not take me” meaning i wish he had, and you just won’t know what that means or what to think of me; this panic, this delusion, the knowing that i am not feeling anything. but you will hold me the same as always and worry worry worry.
“where are we? do you still love me? do you even want to deal with this? how can you not think of leaving?” it’s not that i want you to leave it’s just my heart doesn’t stop beating, my mind keeps thinking. i just need to know, am i even worth being with, breathing.
downhill quickly, sometimes heaven and hell feel like the same thing. but this earth, the one i want to be buried in, the one i’m meant to walk on with you, the one you were born to, the one that harbours third floor english class and the bed we first made love in. this world feels like it’s on my back and every smile i see makes it want to crack because i am not happy and you cannot fix me. i am not the same as the beginning, and i am, but also am not sorry.
boy, we will discuss future plans: kids, shitty beginning apartments and final financial mansions, what it will be like to come home to me every day for eternity. out of thin air, nowhere, i will cry and start the stream of stuttered funeral arrangements like a “45 or above” insurance commercial. i am sixteen and more worried about the negatives for other people when the grenade pin pulls as a popped bottle of pills and my ended breathing, than living.
no hope with someone who writes every reason to die on their bedroom walls. reasons to live in missed calls, midnight fast food trips, and under star love confessions. no hope boy, to not be worried when you’re in love with a person like me.