I can't title anything well. | Teen Ink

I can't title anything well.

September 4, 2011
By laaauren PLATINUM, Cincinnati, Ohio
laaauren PLATINUM, Cincinnati, Ohio
21 articles 0 photos 16 comments

Favorite Quote:
"It's just that...I just think that some things are meant to be broken. Imperfect. Chaotic. It's the universe's way of providing contrast, you know? There have to be a few holes in the road. It's how life is."

I didn't know that questioning
everything would lead to an
empty room with my thoughts
hitting the walls.

Maybe loving you was a mistake
but that didn't stop me from writing
until my tears had dried on my pillow,
littering my head with too many regrets.

My response was too late and your feet
were tired, unanswered questions
weren't the only things on my
mind. We used to laugh like we'd
never run out of breath, but I
gave up on that happiness long before
I knew what it was.

Your chewed down fingernails were
always running along my arms, the
emotions that went screaming out
of my goosebumps were all but
foreign. We ran out of time to
love, almost forgetting that it
shouldn't have died. Promises
only work if pinky's cross.

The music was too loud to hear
my own thoughts but the
cold air did nothing but freeze
the bruised part of your heart
I had squeezed myself into.

Letting go was supposed to
be a refuge but my hand cramped
and your lips were the last thing
on my mind. I should have realized that
you weren't okay either. That
you hadn't put yourself back
together yet. It wasn't our time.

You stopped replying and
I stopped trying to keep my
coffee hot as my mind left me
alone with the bad memories
that any sleepless night could bring.

I felt uncomfortable in my own
skin. As if every bad
thought had pulled it tight
when it was reaching for all
of the "I'm sorry's" my lips
kept mumbling.

My soda was flat and the
smile that I had grown accustomed
to didn't seem like it reached
your eyes anymore.
You sang to me and I thought
that you had found the piece of
yourself, lurking in the back
of the dark closet that you were
so frightened of.

A week's a long time to
not call back when nothing but
a nod of the head could explain
why you forgot how my face
looked and why you didn't
know who you were anymore.

It was then that I stopped
writing, loosing you was better
than running my fingers
through my hair until they
were sliced with thought
after thought.

You left at the right time
before the rope that I'd thrown
to you finally ripped, the unspoken regrets
weighed more than a happy heart.

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