she took a knife and stabbed the notebook, a sharp blade sided with seventeen apologies tore through the letters she refused to let go of and into her poor heart. and telling these stories from a different point of view just makes me remember what i had intended to forget. i am no saint but he was no lover. a memory of me writing on his arm, "we are never empty.. there is always something to fill up the days." a memory of sad sight delivered seemingly just for my own eyes.. cardboard boxes and paper hearts a little house for a little girl. she broke skin on her first attempt and never looked back. who knew growing up would be this hard? who knew the rules would be so lenient and bend with time?

who would ever think i could end up like this?

all broken and shattered and loving it. and if this is my own skin then never let me forget it. because the fingers are too tight and my mouth is just too loose ... spilling out poetic words at the glimpse of free second. and questions pertaining to what i really mean are avoided at all costs because deeper meanings lead to false alarms. i can still see his eyes searching for me, deliverance from feeling so wrong about coughing. and he says hello to me and, "welcome to yesterday. i'll be yr guide for a while but only if you promise not to think of me as more than a memory." and i remember 7-11 parking lots and a lot of cigarettes and the hood of his car and the glaring streetlights and the cold and the warmth and when he stole sidewalk chalk and wrote all about us in some little boy's driveway. and we parked the car on those phrases running them over until they screamed and we never let up.

oh how i remember
but wish to forget.

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