Blue-Eyed Boys

What do you do once you’ve returned from the promised land of milk and honey

west coast where dreams become a little too exposed in the light

blemishes and rough spots and still

So

damn

unattainable.

What do you do when you return empty-handed and there’s only so much you can say,

When you can’t tell which direction the lightning is coming from, does it scare or excite you?

I won’t pretend to know you as well as I once thought I did

I’m so angry, not so much at you because you never pretended to be anything other than what you were:

A lit match

A broken window.

No,

I’m the one who ignored your shards of glass

welcomed them under my skin

I embraced your familiar ache like painkiller hangover migraines and dizzy ribcage satisfaction

And I brushed off the deja-vu skipping record hiccups when your lines started to blur

This isn’t like when I was sixteen and unscarred and you were neglectful and too rough with your hands and your hurt against my virgin bones

you taught me that love shouldn’t come with cold sweat teeth chattering withdrawals

then

Four years later you taught me that people never really change that much when it comes down to it

When you left me at the front door at 3am on a too-warm night with a kiss and a “see you Sunday”

Left me wary of blue-eyed boys who make me laugh so hard I feel like a different person.

Now I know

And as much I want to say,

fuck you and your pseudo philosophy;

fuck your parked on a cliffside conversations about politics and sex and the past and the future;

Don’t you tell me there’s no such thing as ghosts;

That I can’t speak Spanish;

That you don’t still feel my fingerprints on your skin sometimes,

Or that you’re happier alone,

I wouldn’t believe you.

This is the last poem I’ll write about you,

My blind spot broken glass lit match manic pixie dream boy

Because you and I only ever worked in the dark.

Not like lazy Sundays and being able to breathe,

Forgetting to forget to take deep breaths that only highlight the holes in my lungs

Not like,

close the blinds against the 8am sun take care of one another.

You can keep the books,

Maybe they’ll help you like they helped me.