you were wet cement for three years straight and i was your freudian slip.
you weren't even an almost. you weren't anything but a not-so classic reminder that it is possible to accidentally kiss strangers on rollercoasters. looking back now, i believe you were illiterate beause you were always confusing cat-calls with compliments and no amount of alliteration could make the three hours i spent with you seem like a lesson on romance.
you changed my calluses into riverbeds and taught me my most important lesson. do not love boys who think your anxiety is beautiful. do not let them romanticize your screams into symphonies. they will not help you get better.
your eyes were garnished with cilantro, but you didn't know a single word in spanish. heritage is a funny thing.
you were a branding iron stamped on the back of my hands, telling other boys, 'do not hold this girl, you are far too fragile. she will break you like waves and dissolve into sodium chloride in the morning.' i will never forgive myself for making your lungs swell.
you were the boy to toss girls aside like the ashes of the cigarettes you never smoked. i should have paid attention to the statistical evidence that said you'd fall in love with someone else while i was stuck wheezing over second-hand adoration.
you used the bible as a coaster, and said he probably didn't believe in you either. so far, all i'm sure of is you're a boy with a bad memory, and i sincerely hope you're sure i'm worth remembering.