"there are things i need to tell
you but i can’t be poetic about them
because they are not things i can
be poetic about—
there is nothing poetic about suddenly
sobbing with my face in a book
when i’m sitting in a crowded cafe
because a word reminded me of you
or having a dreadful urge to spin myself
into a car accident to see if you would
come and visit me in hospital.
i wish this was lovely, but it’s desperate
and it’s like walking around a children’s
playground with no skin on my flesh.
i don’t know what it was that we had
but i knew it exhausted me the way
pouring rain on the earth exhausts clouds"
- (i.t.) - this is anything but a poem (via isisthornes)