you spent years telling yourself:
hold it in.
set your jaw,
lock up your mouth and throw away the key.
let the secret rattle against the backs of your teeth
like the bars of a prison cell.
clench it in your fists.
close your eyes to keep yourself from crying,
to keep yourself from looking for just a second too long.
but she changed you.
baby, let it out.
open your mouth,
let the stories roll off your tongue.
tell me about every girl you never let yourself want.
welcome me home with open arms.
open your eyes when you tell me you love me.
it’s time to stop living in darkness.
let the light in.
It varies. Some of my poetry is written from prompts, or stories that people send me. Some of those stories apply to me, some don’t. The rest is all based off of my own experiences though.
Three years later, a new girl sits cross-legged on your bed.
She tastes like a different flavor of bubblegum than you are used to.
She opens up a book that you had to read in high school, and a folded picture of us falls out of chapter three.
Now there are two unfinished stories resting in her lap.
Inevitably, she asks, and you tell her.
You say: I dated her a while back.
You don’t say: Sometimes, when I’m holding you, I imagine the smell of her vanilla perfume.
You say: She was younger than me.
You don’t say: The sixteen summers in her bones warmed the eighteen winters my skin had weathered.
You say: It’s nothing now.
You don’t say: But it was everything then.