Seventeen

I’ve been lonely lately,

in a steady state of decay, feeling

like I’m not really living, just

killing time.

 

My body is shipwrecked,

too much water in my lungs, too many cracks

in my bones, yet I’ve always loved

the ocean, the salt water always smells

like memories and I’m trying my hardest

to remember every detail of you, and I’ve

always loved the sound of your voice, I’d have you on

repeat all day like a song I’d never grow tired

of but I guess you couldn’t say the same about me.

 

My heart was paper and you were playing

with matches a little too close for comfort, but

I craved your company anyways like you

were air and I couldn’t breathe,

 

but I guess that pushed you away.

It was like I was trying to find the bruise

in a piece of fruit, pressing so hard

I end up creating it.

 

So I guess I’m making myself rot.

 

It’s my own fault really, craving

touch yet flinching every time

you’re close enough.

 

You used to tell me I was sculpted

by a god you didn’t believe in,

and it made me feel fragile – it’s funny

how precarious we all live,

our bones holding us together yet they

still seem to break –

 

and I’ve been spending a lot of time

at museums lately, trying to make

myself learn that I am still a masterpiece

even when the lights are off and

the room empty and I’m still trying

to learn how to love

because love’s an art form

and I’m terrible at art.

This poem is about: 
Me

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