Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Cake and a Gift Bag

I have a notebook,

where I wrote my will,

last summer,

so that people would know,

where what little I possessed was meant to go,

and so that my mother would know,

that under no circumstances,

was she permitted to use a photo outside of my own careful selections,

on the news,

or the funeral programmes.

I made a list of the things I wanted.

White roses,

soft grass,

a rainy day,

just in case everyone forgot,

with all the grief and shock,

how to cry.

Have you ever been loved?


by someone’s whole heart?

I was laying in my sheets,

scribbling and hoping that the rain wouldn’t be necessary,

but planning for it all the same.

There are so many ways to be loved,

but which have I ticked off the list?

I asked myself that,

for an entire hour,

before deciding it didn’t matter,

because social obligation would force everyone to pretend,

if they wanted cake and a gift bag at the end.

(Yes, I am having cake, and gift bags when I leave)

Muse to many,

nuptial to nobody,

there are some that love to be loved by me,

some that love to fuck me,

some that love to like me a little,

maybe an afterthought,

maybe someone’s only thought,

but that last one,

seems a bit delusional,

if I’m honest.

I know that (approximately) four people have loved me,


I mean,

that was by blood obligation,

and not the kind that people search their whole lives for.

(Not that I am ungrateful)

I think I stopped searching a long time ago,

though I lie on dating profiles and say that it’s all that I want,

but if I were to tell the truth,

I’d say that I just wanted someone to show up,

and cry,

when I leave.

Cry like they really meant it.

Cry like they could never go back to the place where they took me, on our first date, because my shadow says that it will just make them cry.

Cry like they had just spent an hour reading over old texts, trying their hardest to hear my voice inside their head.

Cry like a part of them was locked in a box, being lost under mounds of dirt, and freshly cut white roses.

Cry like they had just lost the love of their life,

even if they were just pretending,

for cake and a gift bag.

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