Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Don’t Remember Me

Love you,

I do,

in an endless,

aching way,

sometimes,

the way it flows through my soul,

feels familiar,

and I am found off balance,

by the words I feel I’ve said before.

img_5232

I have been a mystery,

a far off aspiration,

a headache,

a heartache.

His doll,

his toy,

your hunnybee,

her darling dearest,

his sordid secret,

the slightest bit neurotic,

full of nonsense,

cherie,

cherie,

cherie.

Romantica is everyone’s baby,

for a time,

a girl built from stars,

and sonnets,

and scars.

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I want to be more,

for you.

I want to be what you see in your dreams,

I want to be the heavenly fantasy that haunts you,

stuck in your throat,

because you’re not quite ready to tell me,

honestly,

I am only complete,

when I am built in an image,

that someone completely adores.

I am my own.

I am fiercely individual.

I am an Aquarius,

after all,

but none of that is true,

when I belong to you,

and every you that came before,

is a temporary tattoo,

that I have scraped away,

until I shove their words back in my mouth,

smiling and wiling away the hours,

repeating myself,

and all my greatest clip show episodes,

because I need to fulfil you,

but I don’t know how.

img_5230

I am fulfilled,

and this time,

it hits differently,

your name sits differently on my lips,

every second,

of my night terrors,

waking me,

saving me,

like a spell,

like a kiss,

I call out your name,

and I am transformed,

transferred to blissful safety.

img_5228

Love you,

I do,

and I think you love me too.

I think that I fulfil you,

by the way I think of you,

night and day,

and I think,

you’d kill for me,

in my dreams,

if I asked you nicely,

if I said it soothes me,

to see rivers of blood,

oceans of rage,

your white shirt,

soft neck,

a gallery,

for finality.

I don’t know,

who I want dead next,

I think,

maybe it would be sweet,

if you killed the bad dreams,

and bad habits,

I carried with me.

img_5227

What if one day,

I’m just somebody you remember,

when you see your horoscope,

as you scan the morning paper?

What if one day,

I’m just an uncomfortable,

awkward sex dream,

that makes you confused,

and upset,

causing tension with your wife,

that you can’t explain,

because then you’d have to think of me,

again,

but I am gone,

you haven’t seen me for years,

and it hurts to say my name,

because I did what I always do,

and…

I don’t want to be gone,

this time.

I don’t want you to remember,

because I don’t want you to forget.


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