I Was Made For War...

It's not that I don't want to be in a relationship. I do. I want to call someone 'baby' or maybe I'll settle for 'noob' because i was never really affectionate when it mattered. I want to cuddle with them, and hold their hand, and watch movies with them, and kiss them when I can't hold it in anymore. I want them to sign my waist with their fingers as if to say that i am the only one that matters. I want to fight with them in the winter over who gets the softer blanket, even though we both know that they will give it to me and I will end up crawling back to share it with them. I want to sneak out in the middle of the night and crave sleep in the moring while mixing moans with my coffee and tucking kisses under my collar sleeve. I want to cry, and bleed, and hurt, because contrary to what my grandmother told me, you have to be able to accept both pain and suffering to be able to see how good it finally feels when you find the one; but I know myself. I know that if they are that great then by the second month, or maybe even the third, I will ruin things. Because I cannot live without the shouts of fire and crashing furniture. I will find ways to doubt them, or worse, create ways for them to doubt me. Then I will come back and coax them into my lap and tell them that it was nothing but a mistake, when in reality it's because the only time I feel loved is when I know someone is hurting because they though that they lost me. I can't stand it when everything's too happy.I hate boys who are faithful to me or have made me their whole world. I panic when I don't feel the pain anymore. I will make them feel like they are the best thing that has ever happened to me, because they are, but the next day I will make fun of the way they bare themselves in front of me. I will blame them for every bad thing that happens in my life until they have no choice but to blame themselves too. I was not made for love. I was mad for war. I was bathed in the shards of "you fucked another slut" and alcohol. A lot of it. And yes, that is not an excuse because hell, it happens to mosre than half the people in the world, but my mom fell in love with the class valedictorian and now he's in the living room, half-buried in video games, alcohol, and the stink of women who never seem to notice that he has fucking children. I grew up thinking that it was normal for parents to fight every day for eleven years. For your dad to bring home women and introduce them as Aunt Someone whenever Mom wasn't around. For house to constanly smell like cigarettes and beer. For your grandmother to sit by the phone every night, hoping to death that it isn't another call involving a motorcycle, barbed wire and beer. For your grandfather to hold counsling meetings in the top floor ofr the house because your parents can't sto-p throwing plates at each other. Yes, I know its not normal. I know that not everyone is going to be like that. Yes I am aware that I am being unreasonable. But I am scared.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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