I screamed at you to buy a plane ticket so I could be close to you.
You screamed right back with the same vigor and rage, fueling the cost of $200 being ripped out of your pocket. I have you where I want you.
Now I can prove that I’m close to you, with my fingertips resting on your shoulder and your arms around my waist.
I can prove that each tear on our flesh represents an absolute, lifelong love; no one can take that away.
Now I’m sitting on your couch as you count each girl who has looked you in the eyes, begging for reciprocated affection. One of them is me, but I’m the only one who got a look back.
You say you found me like rocks in the sand, and I think that’s marvelous.
The words of a poet couldn’t grasp my heart the way yours do. I beg for another line.
It makes me heavier; you give and give; I rip them and consume them whole.
We can only plant the seeds to grow a flower. But I won’t get the roses I long for.
It’s snowing now, and you’re still here. I’ve been starving for months.
I found my purpose. You tell me, and I don’t scream.
I roll my eyes and rush out the door. You speak to me in simplistic fragments, and I scream now.
I found my purpose. You’ve told me twice now.
All at once, I confide in your soul, but I can’t seem to find it. Back and forth until the hinges fall apart.
Mine is buried in the graveyard, too.
We plant seeds to grow a flower. We embody perfection. Our cuts out in the open air only help them heal.
I find sanctity in your seething resentment because you won’t show as many teeth tomorrow.
You keep me close enough to miss you when you’re ready for us, and I’m the worst you’ve ever met.
All I do is complain, but nothing seems to change when your anger fuels us both to keep moving, pushing, and ripping.
And I take it all to heart and convince myself that the storm will create beauty tomorrow.
We remedied the stupid conflicts over who rained harder on whom and who stole whose thunder.
I’ve blinded myself by staring into the sun, thinking it'll reflect from the puddle of tears and make a rainbow.
I had you where I wanted you, but you fell out of my hands so easily, and now each letter of love you send me cuts into my throat, and I can only choke out a mere I love you.
Was I wrong to mistake the flames for a bonfire? Was I dispensable, not sanguine, as you said?
Now who am I to grind my teeth at you? I can only tell my mother about the things I let you do to me and the things you let me do to you.
I’m not showered with roses, and I’m barely covered in thorns; all I do is sit and think about my fingers locked in yours’.
Medha Gadikere is a high school junior from California. She's only sixteen, but she is devoted to encouraging young minds to find joy in writing. She loves bustling cafes and photography, and she can often be found reading literary fiction or playing guitar.
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