I was going through a ‘punk-rock, angry at my mother, thick eyeliner and converse high tops’ phase when I met you.
I thought I could love the boy incapable of expressing his emotions because I understood the struggle.
I ripped your heart out and only begged for forgiveness the moment you moved on.
They say you don’t realise what you have until it’s gone, but that was just my selfishness screaming no one else can have you.
I began a habit which would last lifetimes where I only wanted what I couldn’t have.
You were left with a broken heart and a hundred blogs written about my jet black hair, innocent eyes and the future I falsely promised you.
You always blamed the hearts you broke afterwards on me.
The No Strings Attached
I met you at a pool party with no make up on, which is big for the girl who screams self doubt.
I sometimes wonder if that’s the only thing that pulled me to you; your ability to silence my insecurities just by taking an interest in me.
I thought I could love the boy who gave me confidence, because that’s what people who love you are supposed to evoke.
It was always, sunshine, rainbows and borrowed time with you.
We were the first ‘friends with benefits’ to work and never grow feelings for each other.
I flew to Europe for three months and you fell in love with your best friend.
I haven’t seen you in years but I’ve heard you’re still happily in a relationship and I’m about to take my fifth trip to Europe.
Some things never change.
You blurted the truth of having a girlfriend only as we were about to share our first kiss. Shame on you.
I kissed you anyway. Shame on me.
I liked the challenge, the adrenaline of doing something I wasn’t supposed to when I was with you.
I did say I had a terrible habit of wanting what I couldn’t have.
I thought I could love the boy who made me feel sexy and powerful, constantly expressing his frustration over the fact that as much as he tried he couldn’t resist me.
Secret glances, stolen kisses, a world only you and I were a part of… I felt alive.
Then came your break up. “I did it for you” you so happily announced.
I panicked. All the passion, the adrenaline, the want was gone.
“I’ve heard it said that satisfaction is the death of desire.”
The only truth I’ve ever known.
The years after included ocassional hook ups, your drunken ‘I love you’s,’ playful banter and numerous attempts at a friendship.
I’m sorry you never heard those three little words back, but I’ve never been a liar.
You were the devil disguised as an angel.
No one has ever been as captivating as you were, my mind always filled with only you.
Eagerly waiting for your text or call, your poetic words of affection, the word ‘baby’ falling ever so effortlessly off those plump, enticing lips.
Your darkness and my darkness would blend to spark a fire that could light up galaxies. Or so I thought.
You kissed away the hurt, your compliments pushed away the insecurities.
You understood the darkest parts of me and I always believed you were the light.
I thought I could not only love but save the boy who was so obviously broken, even more so than me.
You were allowed further than any man before you.
Certain walls diminished as you neared closer, and closer to my heart.
Well there must be a god and I thank him for stopping you before you got there.
You tried to piece me back together, because you wanted to be the one to rip me to shreds.
You wanted to be the one to make all my insecurities come to life.
You wanted to be the first to enter my heart, only so you could maliciously rip it out.
Sorry you couldn’t get there, but I’m much stronger than you ever gave me credit for.
You are a lost, broken soul of a man who destroys anything he comes in contact with, in hopes that their pieces will make up for the ones he has lost.
I could never save you and you couldn’t break what was already broken.
We were only together upon occasions when my family would decide to visit Europe for a couple of months, 8000 miles separating us.
Five years had passed since my last trip, three in which no contact was made but I was finally on a plane again.
We were older now, more mature and you “wanted” to make it work.
I thought I could love the boy who wanted to show me the world and who promised to follow me to the ends of it.
You’d think the 8000 miles would be our biggest problem, but you had a habit of drowning in alcohol and fucking your way across the globe through visiting tourists.
I flew to the other side of the world, but I only fell in love with travelling and never with you.
When people ask me about my first time, I’ll blush and whisper “in Europe when I was 20” and they’ll think you deserve more recognition but the only thing I gave you that night was my body.
In return you taught me the difference between fucking and making love.
You were never as important as I made people think.
You were just a reasonable excuse to drop all responsibilities and fly to the other side of the world, twice in one year.