sorrow this, sorrow that

i don’t like it. it goes-

‘today i woke up and cried. my bed feels lonely. i wish you were here.’

i don’t cry though. i have headaches from staying up too late. my bed is too cramped to make loneliness feel at home. it looks at the mess i make each morning and slithers away. i do miss you, but i also miss having toast for breakfast and blueberry jam and the way he tastes after a fight.

i guess that’s all there is.

“today morning the light hit my hair just right and it felt like how it did when you smiled at me.”

i scribble it all down. turn pain into poetry, fifteen year old me says. take all the hurt and make something beautiful out of it.

i think of texting you, but i don’t want to impose is what i tell myself. 

“the rain feels nice. i am fine. i miss the boy who said he wanted to love the sadness out of me.”

his name is long forgotten, but i still remember how he cupped my arms and asked me to give him a chance. i tell him no, soft enough that he thinks it’s a yes and i bleed for three months after that. i guess it was the sadness finally leaking out, so at least he kept his word.

“today i texted a friend and wished it was you instead.”

i don’t know how to tell you that i think i love you. it lodges itself in my throat and i choke. i am not made for love, people have told me. i am made for the way i look on top of them or under them or tied up. they tell me i have pretty skin that begs to be marked up and i smile and nod and let them. you looked at me like you’d rather i walk beside you.

here’s what i know. 

i’m too smart for my own good. i overanalyze everything. my body is covered in scars. i miss my dad. i hate the way cars smell. i cannot stand summer but i tell you i love it cause you loathe it. i love to climb up to the rooftop and look at the stars. i kissed a girl when i was eleven and let her turn me into a monster. i kissed a boy when i was eighteen and turned him into a monster. i am a no good, foolish little thing, but i light up when you’re there and that scares me. 

so i tell you i’m sad. 

The Cat

Evangeline Gallagher February/October 2020

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