07 when it was over

when it was over

I didn’t cry like I thought I would,

no heavy tears or fragile breaths.

I wondered if I was dead inside,

this creature with a sorry

excuse for a heart.

Or I was just accepting 

that I was foolish and knew 

deep down it wouldn’t last;

that while he was away,

I mourned him, the end

of a sweet time, the end

of sneaking out for freedom,

the end of having a social outlet.

His face was purple,

like a grape,

juicy and disgusting.

It’s a boy, isn’t it?

I could feel his voice in the walls.

Lying in bed, I buried

my face in my pillow, hoping to suffocate

the fumes, to melt into my bed

and disappear. I wanted something to

look forward to, something from life

that would erase the burden my bones

ached from. I wanted someone to love,

who could love me despite the battles

my mental illnesses would bring.

I stared at my palm, reasoning,

that I should learn to love myself first.

But sticking to resolutions

was like trying to catch this tiny,

prized bubble that

would pop just before

my fingertips brushed its edge.

And it always popped when 

I knew better.