This Is Not a Love Story


In late August I found a girl

who wrapped me in marijuana stained kisses

if I aided her wounds.

She whispered she loved me

as I undid her noose and attempted to put her back together again.

I baked her cookies and told my friends that I’d never loved the way I loved her

and they said “You’re perfect for each other”

even though they knew we weren’t.


Early December I held a boy

who balanced the world on his shoulders and I helped him carry it.

We stood tall yet unsteady,

for he was lost in obsession, impulsivity and childlike dreams,

and I was lost in his eyes, his hands, the way he pulled me close...

I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you.

My friends saw me cry and beg for forgiveness,

but never mentioned the lipstick and perfume hanging from his newly stained clothing.


In April I kissed a boy

with music on his mind and a need to change the world.

We held hands when no one was watching and danced on frozen railroad tracks.

We kissed with eyes open, feeding off of a lustful glance,

I could see his world and he could see mine,

my exhale was his inhale and we were one.

One day he closed his eyes.

I asked my friends what it meant, and they said I was overreacting,

and I never did see that boy again.

I could have loved him.

I could have loved him.


Summer came around and she was beautiful.

A heart of gold she gave to me

A shit ton of money

and a drink or two to soothe the pain.

And the crying only started after the screaming.

And the screaming only started after the accusations.

And the accusations only started after the shaking.

And the shaking only started after she was in the fetal position for long enough in her dimly lit room with nothing but her thoughts to comfort her.

And I could see her broken stare,

and they thought she was going to kill herself,

and they thought she was going to run away,

and they thought she was going to relapse,

and my friends thought it was my fault,

and I sunk into lightless days,

and my pillow was my best friend,

and I saw her and I cried,

and August came and went,

and December came and went,

and April came and went,

and and and and and


And now I sit alone in my drunken haze

strumming guitar strings with bloody fingers.

There’s a fine line between alone and lonely.

Don’t look for love in broken places cuz all you’ll find are broken people.

I didn’t call my friends,

I didn’t want the world to know that love didn’t save me the way it saved them.


Last winter I met him again when all I wanted was to be alone.

I sat in the snow, done with love, done with life, done with me

and he joined me.

He wiped my icy tears and lifted my lifeless body.

He took me home and kissed my bruises but I never gave him my heart.

I told him that I was too old and too scarred for loves false arrows

and he never left.

And I called my friends,

and we sipped on lukewarm coffee

and they looked me in the eye

and told me to keep him.

they told me to stay.


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