we had a love for the books. a love that could go down in history if we told enough people. we had something special. i was- or we were trapped inside this fantasy of a world. and we thought we were eternal. that our love would go on until the day we died. but eternal’s a long time. and after a long time your words dont have the same meaning and your spilled blood on the carpet is another stain to deal with and you were a hurricane and i was a small town.
whenever i meet someone else i look for your qualities. your likes, your dislikes. your quirks. your responses when i said certain things. but i came to understand quickly that you are really gone and im really here and the blood in my mouth is heavier than i last remember it to be and i still remember the smell of your moms car and you touched me like spilled wine on a white carpet. i still see your hand prints all over my body.
when someone dies you leave flowers. you make food. you cry. you reflect. so when you remember how i used to be in your life from time to time i hope you cry. i hope you reflect. skip the flowers and cooking but remember who i was and why you let me in at all. i will leave blood stained hand prints on your light blue walls and smear my paper cut fingers on your mirrors and ill throw up blood from the way i can still feel when you held me through the night. ill cut my body everywhere i can still see you in me.
but i will not cry over you. i will not wake up screaming because you are no longer there. i will not smell your shirts and hope you come back. you are gone. and that is okay. you were a hurricane and i was a small town. you destroyed me. you were ruthless. but brick by fucking brick i will rebuild. you were the stain in my white rug. but i will scrub you out. you do not own me anymore.