if i don't say this i'll explode // a book of poetry

// entry ninety-seven //

11:25am, the 18th of October on a Sunday

At the end of the day the only thing that matters is that you spend yours with me.

Sweep me like a pile of leaves in your garden

You swept me under a rug, I beg your pardon.

I'm not the kind of girl you should hide.

I'm not the type to take your lies.

Take me to the movies, and take me to the beach. Take where your heart is because I feel it's out of reach. Take me somewhere you know from the name, take me somewhere or I'll head south for you babe.

With your drunk arms and intoxicated smile even the few hours you spent appreciating and acknowledging my presence was enough for me; I only ever wanted to be held.

Whipping my head back with every sounding squeak of that bar door, it hurt each time to see everybody but you spill outside and ask me spill out what seemed to be upsetting an innocent girl at 1:18am.

Why didn't you leave your hand a little more on my back; why didn't you leave your hand a little more on my heart?

I was always the one that chose to play pretend

Spinning up a web of dreams in my head.

I'd play them out before bed;

Scenarios where you were blue and I red.