Zero.
Soft sunlight and my poor photography skills. You compliment me and I squeeze your hand tighter. You teach me how to kiss until I can do that with more ease than breathing. You let me teach you how to use chalk pastel and we sing along to my favorite songs. I hug you before you leave and as soon as I get back into my house I'm texting you "I miss you."
Eight.
I'm in denial. It's been rough and I'm not ready to admit that what you did was all that bad. You're just having a rough time. It's okay, I'm here for you. My soul feels stomped on but none of that matters. Not to me, not to anyone. Things are a bit more normal after a week. It's okay. "I forgive you" I type as I'm sobbing into my pillow.
One hundred and eleven.
Just for laughs I type in "loveisrespect.org" I find the test and take it. I remember how we all did it in English. How important it was to you. I fly through the questions and tally up the score. One hundred and eleven. I wish I could tell you the score. I wish i could go back in time and tell myself the score. I wish none of this happened.
I wish I was the same as I once was.
YOU ARE READING
Poems: Aesthete
PoetryHere I churn out my guts for everyone's pleasure, trying to make pain tangible. Trying to make feelings comprehensible. Trying to be somthing.
