you’re not even mine

and i promised myself a long time ago-

in cold blood, walking my neighborhood alone

like a crazy homeless person,

until my mother finally found me shivering by the roadside

struggling to put one foot in front of the other and make my way home

my face soaked in tears and my hair a mess,

with empty eyes and empty hands-

that i would not ever think of myself as belonging to someone again

because the bitterest pill is to realize that you were unwanted all along;

but i cannot help but smile at the thought

that i have known you this long and still find you around,

and maybe that means i have some claim over you, after all.

i know these thoughts are poison

seeping into my veins and grinning smugly because they know

that i will never again allow myself to bleed out the toxins that circulate in my system.

i know that i am no more entitled to your presence or care

than birds are entitled to safely land on electrical lines,

and that you probably think of me about as often

as the stars are known to shine in suburbia-

seldom, and faintly, if ever.

but one of those poison thoughts coursing through my bloodstream

was lighter fluid,

and God only knows that I am something of a pyromaniac.

i am a moth

and you are the flame

and i know i am doomed

and i am afraid to decide whether or not i care.

I’ve been losing things

for as long as I can remember.

sometimes they’re stolen

and sometimes they just vanish

as if I’d never even owned them at all.

a bright yellow fleece

fell into the hands

of a third grade thief.

a maroon poncho disappeared

at after school care

never to be seen again.

necklaces and friendship bracelets

inhalers, headphones, glasses cases

books and journals, all my watches

and every lunchbox I’ve ever bought.

sometimes I miss them, but that’s it-

they’re just things.

petty things.

insignificant things.

so tell me what happens

when I start to lose