my favorite color is pink

my favorite number is seven

i like simple things like the smell of rosemary and bubble baths

and

it's hard to tell

when all these things started aligning themselves with you

when the sunlight in my window was more than just a morning hello

and when my favorite songs had became so sweet they gave me toothaches

i like simple things,

i like a simple life

but i think i like you

and that's anything but simple

and sometimes i fear that simply because they did not love me

the way i have always loved them,

there's no room left in my heart for others

i fear that when it all ends i'll be left with half a heart and you'll be left with two because for you i would give my very being

i fear that the chapters of my book have been left out in the rain

pages torn apart left to rot on the concrete

and

i'm so sorry my love language is not legible to you

but please,

know that i'm trying

please know that i am.

sometimes when i write it feels more like vomit

like forcing out words that bubble in my gut and leave acid stains on my blue lined paper

its like finding the stanzas that have been etched into my bones with plastic knives,

peeling them off between the layers of skin i cover up with hello kitty bandaids

its like playing dress up with words from the mouth of a person who belongs in a white room with padded walls

like maybe if we tie a few silk ribbons and add sparkles to this monster of fear we can squint our eyes, tilt our heads a little,

and read it as poetry

it's sickening to love my body

its vulgar and perverse for a fourteen year old girl to adore and appreciate every angle and arch in her torso

how dare i love the dips in my hips and kiss the scars that line my wrists

i love my shape

i love every shadow

every glance in the mirror

i don't hate myself anymore

and i won't let them convince me that i do.

i've dreamt about kissing you

i've dreamt of your soft hands leaving those pockets of yours and tracing along the ticklish parts of my body

dreamt about kissing you on my tippy toes or next to the piano,

i'd kiss you while you play guitar and you'd pluck me like the strings

however, those dreams are long gone

months ago they seeped into my silk pillowcase and faded with the saltwater tears on the sidewalk

so i no longer dream about kissing you

i dream of something more realistic

like forgetting you,

leaving you and every kiss i wish i could've given you in these notebooks filled with every thought i can't express,

ill try to forget you

and every touch we never shared.

im sick

and it's not a pretty sick

not a meaningful sick filled with doctors notes and butterscotch flavored lollipops

no i'm sick in the head

"sick in the brain,"

she said.

im sick mentally,

physically,

emotionally,

sick in my bed

but not because i threw up earlier

nor because my breath

still stings of pedialyte

but because i can't stand up without the weight of my thoughts

crushing me deeper into my mattress

not to mention the smell of my stomach as i so un-prettily throw up another

meaningless love poem about you

i could vomit out every word and curve of your face

but it wouldn't mean a thing

and it wouldn't cure me too

words line my lips and swirl in between every finger print,

soaking in like ink

i say this for you to remember every time i plant a soft kiss on the spot above your chin

or trace my fingers along the map of your bones

im secretly leaving poems and phrases that writing itself could never express

i've been so lost in my own head lately

so bottled up in thoughts that shake around the room like tornados and shatter on the walls like broken china

i think about you sometimes and i wish i could say it makes the weather a little nicer,

but it's just more like flood warnings and foggy street lamps

like iced roads and fist sized hail

sometimes i think about me,

my future, my past

and i think about how my therapist once told me if i didn't stop thinking

and worrying

my head would soon explode and splatter on the walls like crimson paint and charcoal memories

my thundering thoughts thrown upon this house like an abstract art gallery

i was eleven,

and now i'm fifteen,

almost fifteen

still worrying about the same things and the same storms

the same damn weather warnings from four years ago

it's sad really, that it rains far too much in this little quaint town for us to ever grow our garden

i'm sorry we can't ever grow our garden.

because in truth i love the rain

i love thunderstorms and i love floods

i love when tears stream down my face like rain drops on a windowsill

i love the silver lining to every cloud

and i love you until the moon should turn upside down

i hope when it rains a little you think of me and my thundering thoughts

because in truth i'd love to grow my garden with you

but i love the rain far too much

and i know you never will.