I buried the hatchet,
it’s coming up lavender
I buried the hatchet
but now dandelions are growing on its grave
and I can’t help but wish on every single one of them
I wish i knew who you were from the start and not after it was too late
I wish a person could be just a person
I wish you were just you and not
I wish I could kiss you one last time, if only to suck my blood from in between your teeth
and spit it back
back at you back into my dried-up veins
i wish my skin was mine and mine only
i wish my innocence wasn’t stuck in your throat like every promise you ever made
i wish I could forgive you enough to forget you
i wish i could painlessly blow your name into the wind
with a handful of dandelion seeds,
and that they’d plant themselves in front of your house
i wish you’d see more and more of them sprouting from your lawn each day
so you never forget what you did to me
most of all i wish the hatchet would stay buried
it hurts to know i was just
collateral damage in the grand scheme of things
that my being could be reduced to a bloodstain on the Third Street corner
that i was breakable and my screams didn’t break you, too
and it hurts to read the story of your life and scan the pages for my name only for my fingers to stop at the mention of
“a brunette affair measured only in minutes and not moments”
I belong to quick, futile moments of intense feeling.
Yes, I belong to moments. Not to people.
