04 01

i remember writing about these girls, girls who held their goodbyes closer to their lungs than the breaths that they used to speak hello, the girls who had a five-finger discount on pain and poetry, who used me only as a metaphor for things get better, who loved with the same frailty that they held butterflies with. you asked me once if i wanted to be one of those girls. i never responded, for what i wanted to say was no, i didn't want to be one of those girls. i wanted to love those girls i wanted to love them with all the split lines and saddened words i could write, with all the happiness that they could muster from old bruises and faded photographs, from the rustling of their sheets to the shining of the moon through their window. i want to love them completely, to love solely them, because they need love the most.