#lbpoems

This poem Has two Authors

Untitled by Lauren Bell

I tell my friends you haven’t crossed my mind in months but last week I spent all the cash in my wallet on cinnamon candles that smell like your pillow cases and my fingers shake every time I strike the match. They ask me if we’ve spoken and I get sick to my stomach when my truthful answer is exactly what they want to hear. My mother doesn’t ask about you because she thinks I’ve transferred my affections to the boy with gentle eyes that picks me up late at night. She doesn’t realize she’s passed to me the trait she hates most about herself. In her naivety, she honestly believes I can commit myself to any particle of being that doesn’t belong to you. He doesn’t open my car door or know the syllables of my middle name, but my soul does not catch on fire when I am with him, and for this reason I find no sorrow in his indifference. I only find comfort in pretending that it is you pinning my legs back towards ruffled fabric that fills my lungs with cinnamon instead someones who’s finger tips my flesh does not recognize. My sister knows my heart is heavy as lead because last week we shared tequila on the balcony and I traced your name onto the flesh of my thigh. She held my hands and told me that there are far too many beautiful words in my troubled mind to let your name be the only one that escapes. I read her face easily because it closely resembles my own and my heart broke when I noticed the clenching of her jaw. Illuminated by old Christmas lights I set the bottle down and admitted it’s been months since I’ve written a single word that didn’t burn.

I am really happy for you and I am not lying about it now. I utter poison in ways only poets can and you sat in the warzone as if you weren’t begging for the antidote. I was silent for days in ways you didn’t understand but she speaks smoothly like warm milk and honey. Her words don’t burn. They are composed like a symphony you hum all the notes to and you are starting to forget the sound of my voice. Our love was constant begging but she never asks you to get on your knees. You never have to hold her waist as you cry to the heavens. You are relieved there is no blood running down your shins. We never went enough days without bloodshed for your scars to heal But she tends to your wounds and runs her lips over marks I made with mine. I used to wish you well through teeth gritted so tight the sound barely escaped. I used to clench my fists until my veins looked like they could escape from my skin and I couldn’t help but wonder what they would look like spilled open. I wondered if you visit me in the hospital. Now my fingers don’t shake and my fists aren’t tense and I can use my hands to write poems about how I am really happy for you. And I am not lying about it now.