The Awful Truth

Can you hear me?
I get the fever has a hold on her
I have drowned inside myself
trying not to use her exact words.
I’m comfortable being vague
meaning nothing to her
from the outside at least.
I’ve long since washed her away,
my mind is stuck and spinning
she was technically my first
to get all hung up on.
I’m sure it’s a sign or something,
but I keep silent.
Come here finish what you started,
press both hands on my shoulders
keep me under the surface longer
until it’s too much
to properly breathe.
I’m begging her
start all over with me,
just this time though
push me away with both hands.
She’s the only one
I’ve ever gotten this sick with,
somehow I wish,
she could undo this curse.
I’ve tried this praying thing,
I’m convinced I’m possessed,
I constantly hear her voice
tortured by her
I trip and stumble
on broken knees to palms
in love with an imperfect girl
my imperfect memory
she’s my equal mistake.
Maybe things will never change.
I’ll just be sick
with her name
filling up my mouth.
It’s hard to breathe now.
She never meant to be my burden
I can’t get rid of this fever
I thought for sure I was immune
I’m fucked if I see her picture
stuck memorizing
the very thing I once held.
Hands can barely remember
how good her hips fit.
I didn’t think I’d need her now
knowing how I feel
I thought I had everything.
Wasted time sits heavily,
I’m in an imperfect world
where I can easily
smell her perfume.
From underneath a full night
her kisses were my weightless truth
I couldn’t get enough of,
but even with my strong arms
I wish I kept her closer.
This is the hour
that matters most.
I can’t use my words,
or say the things,
that gave us this condition.
Somehow I have to finish this
new block of feelings.
I understand this poem is way too long
I keep going on and on over her
without mentioning her name
or how she felt.
The part that fit so seamlessly
we’d go in and take turns
trying to mend the broken parts,
ever so slowly,
I can keep on writing
and what’s worse,
I know she secretly comes here
and reads every word
in every verse.
My peverted vouyer
getting off on all my words
that make up this,
poetic part,
that can’t quite stop
and put her away
on some forgotten shelf.
No, I’m the one
that’s never cold now,
burning of fever
from a girl
who is long gone.

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