He didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to know you and
you fell in love with the way he held you
like a shell, a beautiful shell, but still a shell.
You built a story about your love because you thought
that you were supposed to feel love by then but it
was not love. It was excitement of the touch,
reaction of the body, sounds you believed you had to make.
What a terrible thing it is to convince a young mind
love is only skin on skin. Young and broken, you wanted
to believe that it was all real. Believe you had to ability to feel.
From that young age you were in search of those
who would touch your body but wouldn’t ask about your soul.
You put him on a pedestal, saying no one will ever love you like him
not realizing he never loved you to being with.
Blurry nights, packs of cigarettes and tequila shots.
Your hips, your hands, your body moving to the rhythm.
Your eyes closed, imagining those arms belong to him.
You decide to hide. The scars burn the same at 16 and 25.
You are scared that what’s inside you would scare the one in front of you. You perfected the art of being a shell, a beautiful shell but still a shell. The past is an old suitcase you hide under the bed.
You see him on the street and you want to scream:
“Why didn’t you care to know who I was?”
but not even a whisper leaves your mouth.
You are weak at the knees, the story flashes in front of your eyes.
Maybe you are powerless around him, because you are in presence of love? Maybe you were supposed to have it all but you were both too young? Or maybe, just maybe you want to believe that beautiful lie?
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