he is like a cardboard box. although he is in brown, or prefabricated or even a square by any means… he still has the word fragile written up the side of his stomach. his hands? they looked like spiders, like lonely spiders trying to find something to hold on to. they wove webs between my fingers, & found peace within my palms. these spiders told me stories of infinity, passion,& teenage hearts. he was like a canvas- & we all know that blank canvases wear masterpieces uncomfortably, looking pretty artsy& intriguing from the outside but leaving white spaces to learn what it means to be forgotten, constrained, & suffocated- blank surfaces feel the pressure under picasso’s paint brush. pushing colors into insufficient spaces… making bare canvas boys into works of art.
& he is just a tender boy, but his hands told my body stories behind locked doors. they told me stories of mistakes made in the past, & guarantees the ones he’s gonna make in the future. & i was just another girl, & he was just another boy, & we were two awkward teenagers stumbling upon reasons, trying to find significance tattooed on each other’s tongues. but together? we were somebody.
i remember the first time i noticed that he was broken. he tasted like glass& looked like scissors. it was early january, 8 yrs ago. he was misunderstood& i know that i should’ve been careful… but the way his guitar tuned the strings of my heart felt all too perfect to be dangerous. the way his jaw cocked& loaded every time we kissed felt all to perfect to be dangerous. the was his hazel eyes broke down my body, naked& vulnerable…. the way he told me he loved me felt all too dangerous to be perfect.
& if art is beauty, then we were van gogh splattered across the sunset. & if art is truth, then we were monet streaked across the skylight. & if art is God, then we were picasso cascading blackened stars across the universe, exploding like a glance, like a gun, like a star with a flick of a paintbrush into infinity. he taught me what it felt like to rip myself open, unbuttoning my insecurities& unzipping my skin like paper to find my heart lying there soaked in inexperience& blood… he taught me what it felt like to have a heartbeat.
& now i don’t know whether i should hate him or love him for what he did to me. our relationships were filled with games, you see. he& i? we pretended like he would stick around& acted like i wouldn’t care if he stayed or left. we acted like we knew what we were doing because we thought that we did. & now i wish a lot of things. i wish i could’ve stained his hip bones with the pattern of promises i told him. i wish i could’ve tarnished his forearm with the rustic remembrance of what once was. & i wish that saying i love you was half as easy as writing it is.
… but he was so god damn fragile & i was just a girl left behind to talk to cardboard boxes that made me feel like he was still listening- like he still cared. & i told him that i loved him, that i missed him. & now many years have passed& the only thing i feel that i have left to say is thank you
& that i only wish the best for him <3