It’s strange how someone that meant so much to you can just leave, but somehow their imprint some part of that love you had with them in your soul. Years later you can look back and think, “what went wrong”, “everything was so perfect”. I always say that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes I wish I could’ve picked my own path. I sure as hell wouldn’t have been in the place I am now. I would still be back in my 17 year old body, loving someone because I thought he deserved it. I would still be loving you in all the ways that you said were so special to you, yet turned out to be suffocating you. We would still be pretending that everything was okay. We would still be in love. Or what I thought love was.
Turns out that love I thought was love at 17 isn’t love at all. I found love not long after. Real love. The love that makes me stand up on the roof with you at 4 am looking at the stars. The love that makes me tell you how much I love you everyday. The love that consumes you with happiness, like a drug. I found love in a place I would’ve never looked. I found love in a man I would have never have looked at. This love makes me feel like if I were to die, I would have already lived the happiest years of my life.
With all this love I have in my heart, why do I keep looking back to 17?
"Depression is like wanting to go home but already being there"
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.
thats some deep shit
points out the
hair on your legs is
growing back remind
that boy your body
is not his home
he is a guest.
warn him to