i remember a conversation from when i was younger. i was asked what i looked for in someone. you see, i told them that i look for the qualities of a best friend. now that i look back on that conversation, i wonder why i wanted to fall in love with a best friend. because now that i have, i want it to go away.
they call it FALLING in love for a reason, don’t they?
for me at least, it’s a cruel experience to fall in love with my best friend. i’m sure a lot of people would relate to this since of course i’m not the only person who’s been in this situation. but i wonder.
i love his smile, and his laugh. i love the way his voice gets higher when he’s laughing through his sentence. i love how he constantly says his funny jokes even though it’s not an appropriate time to say them. i love that he’s so passionate about his hobbies. i love that he’s so respectful and kind towards others. i love everything about him. from every flaw that people hate to every single best quality he’s ever had. sure he’s made mistakes, but we all do. i don’t mind if his past is a little marked up, mine is as well. i don’t really care.
he is my best friend. my closest guy friend. he’s seen me at my best but also at my worst. i remember every little detail of his response to my confession. i remember the heartbreak. but i remember the relief i had when he said it wouldn’t mess up our friendship.
it hasn’t messed up our friendship yet, thank god. but it’s messed up me. my mind. my emotions. i love him. im in love with him to the point where i’m drowning in it. i’m drowning in the love that i have for him. and while i wish i could stop, my heart seems to believe that theres still a chance for me here.
to reach the sky.
to reach the stars in the galaxies.
to see a supernova
would be beautiful
to once again have hopeful, sparkly eyes.
to not feel so alone.
to finally have happiness in a smile
would be magical
oh how sweet those little things are
oh how bubbly she is when she talks to you
oh how stupid is he to not talk to her anymore
oh how red her face turns from laughing
because of your jokes.
you, please never leave her like he did.
please take care of her warm and gentle soul
that she always says she never has
you don’t have to date her,
just be there for her.
she’s//all the//therapy//i’ve ever needed
i hurt people
before they hurt me
~ the most important thing you need to know about me
i can’t just pick and chose when to be her friend
i can’t just pick and chose parts of her to love
and i can’t just blame her for me not being ok
i just don’t get it. i don’t get how we can still make each other happy when we are the way we are. i don’t understand how we can laugh and laugh until our sides ache but then i find myself falling apart. how you find yourself falling apart. i don’t understand that when i’m curled up crying i don’t text you. i don’t call you. because i’ve come to understand that you won’t answer. you don’t need to answer. you say that your phone died or that you asleep. i day it’s ok. and i sound mistrustful but that is because my trust has been shattered so many times that it’s barely there. and i sound clingy but when i feel jagged edges of all my insecurities breaking through my skin, i want you. and if i hadn’t convinced myself years ago that i didn’t need anyone but myself, i would say that i need you. i know you are tired of me hot and cold. i know you are tired of how I’m just not the same girl you met in that french class with your green dress and jacket. and you know what? i’m tired too. i’m tired of the nights i spend without sleep and the days i spend building people up while i’m breaking. on Monday things will be normal again. we will ignore the message i sent and we will ignore the underlying truth that you are leaving me. and i am leaving you. and it scares me so so much to think that out of all the people i have met, i think you could be the one i need. but we both know you don’t need me. we don’t have long conversations anymore. you’re too busy. we don’t sent pictures with funny captions or attempt to plan anymore. i think deep deep inside we both know that our friendship has become a habit and we just don’t care enough to break it. you didn’t steal my skittles anymore, that’s not how the story goes. i gave you a piece of my heart willingly, but now i want it back. we both know i’m selfish.
i say i need time to all my friends
i know they won’t miss me anyway
because i can already picture me gone
and them without me one day
she skips family dinner to run away from the abuse
a mother born flawed turned perfectionist early
a father working too late to spare but a smile
and two sisters who left as soon as they could
pursuing medical degrees for success which guarantees them praise
While she gets none.
and she calls me on the phone
her voice only slightly scratchy filled with the usual irony and skepticism
hey//can you meet me//at the record store//at a quarter past ten//because i’m tired//of a never-ending critic//who’s supposed to my mother//but all i get//is salt instead of sugar//tears instead of treats//and waiting hours//in the school lobby//because she forgot//about me again// (am i really that forgettable?)
and i say
hey//yes i’ll meet you there//heard a local band is playing//wanna catch the subway there//new york city has never seemed so pretty//right along there with you
we met at the radio room
throaty music and old coffee smell
and she loses herself in the music
fingers strumming her scratched guitar
dear mother of hers//can’t you see// she is worth more than// a medical degree// she doesn’t wear dress//so what//i like her jeans and sweatpants just fine//because of your abuse//she’s turned hard//not trusting people//and scared to come home at night
because of you// she is afriad//and plugs a straightener into the wall//because of you//she plays classical//until her fingers bruise//while singing secretly along to journey//and mother of hers//while you don’t call it abuse//we all know//that she has scars in places//you cannot see//because you are too busy//trying to make another perfect daughter//to your perfect mother//that you don’t see her
i had my first kiss at eight years old
(he tasted like the lemonade he’d had with lunch)
with muddy shins and splattered shorts
my hair sticking out in a disrray
i (he told me)
tasted like tuna
–he was my best friend after he was my first love