Butterfly Diaries A teen on a quest to be a better writer

Dorm Girl

Written some time last semester. Just found it

 

I don’t want to write another sad poem

I don’t want to write another self harm suicide rape trauma poem

I don’t want to write another poem that I cry through

When I try not to write  sad, I write sex

But what am I supposed to do when sex and sadness intertwine?

Molested as a child and it never stopped

Harassment here, blurred lines there, just another guy I’m meant to hate

I told everyone I loved it.

I told myself I loved it.

Then I found myself in a relationship with an asexual guy

At down I find myself wondering if it is because I needed a break

or because I wanted to be the one pushing for once

Fuck, now I’m crying again

They beg you to throw away your blades and they give you a typewriter

What else can I write?

Should I tell you about the girl?

The girl I catch myself thinking about too often?

The girl who plays guitar and piano

like it’s the only way her thoughts can escape?

It’s not that I want to have sex with her

I just want to see the inside of her

I want to know if it’s barmen and carved into

or blurry and dark.

I want to know why she does so many drugs.

Is it to numb or to feel?

I catch myself looking at her hands

Can you be attracted simply to the way hands move on certain people?

I can tell so much just looking at them

The callouses and burns don’t give it away

It’s the way she grabs beer and weed like her mother’s hand

but pencil and paper like something foreign or banned

It’s the fact that she is 20 something and I was her second kiss.

She kissed me out of anger.

She kissed me out of fear.

She kissed me because she didn’t know what else to do with herself

I think that’s why I’m so mesmerized.

She has so much emotion but lets herself believe she doesn’t

I wonder if she remembers our drunk talk

or if she pretends not to, in the morning/

I wonder if she thinks about me

or if I was just another vice to grab.

Maybe I have made it all up

Maybe she is just a girl

and I am making her an example of my problems

Maybe the world it what it seems on the surface

Maybe the love of my life is asexual by chance

Maybe the list of guys who have pushed me gets longer by chance

Maybe every poem I try to write is sad by chance

or maybe this is all something bigger

Maybe the girl is in my head because she fell into my story

and doesn’t belong.

Maybe I’m onto something here

or maybe I need to go to bed.

 

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