I met him when I was twelve years old.
He wrote beautiful poems.
Sad poems.
Poems that hit me right in the gut.
I messaged you and told you how much your words touched me.
How they reached down my throat and tickled my heart.
You fell in love fast, but you were always so good at hiding.
You were broken.
Covered in scars.
From your mother.
From lovers.
From family.
Little tally marks up and down your body.
I was so broken.
Never good enough for my mother.
I wanted your words to take me away.
You wrote me beautiful poems.
Love poems.
Just texts. Words.
About me, my body, my mind.
I wanted you to touch me.
You fell in love so quick.
And we fell apart even quicker.
Meeting you was like meeting your poems.
You reached down my throat and begged me to feel.
Click, clack, moo.
I remember our first kiss.
We fumbled over books, over each others looks.
We fought.
Every single day after that.
I said good by to you when I was twenty five.
Two months ago to be exact.
I wrote poems to you.
On the same site we met.
Begging you to feel.
All I’ve ever known is you.
**not finished but that’s all I can bare to write at the moment. Enjoy.
