u/dixenablender

i am addicted to fentanyl. me and my friend went to SOAD concert last year.

we were leaving the hotel to go to the concert. i was in her car waiting for her. she thought i never had anything. i smoked in her car.

she comes out to find me unresponsive. she calls 911. they narcan me 3 times.

she’s crying, i am angry. i am angry at the paramedics, i am angry at her. they take me to the hospital. she goes home.

i will forever hate myself for that.

They ask me
what I like about you.
I shrug.
"You're funny,"
I say.
"You're kind."
"You're just easy to talk to."
It's nothing.
I don't tell them
how your smile
always arrives
half a heartbeat
before your laughter,
like dawn
slipping beneath
a closed door.
I don't tell them
how your eyes
keep finding mine,
or how they hold
entire evenings
inside them.
People write novels
trying to invent
colors like yours.
I don't tell them
that your voice
is silk
drawn slowly
through careful hands,
that I'd listen
to you read
grocery lists,
weather reports,
anything,
if it meant
hearing you
a little longer.
I say
you're pretty.
As though
that tiny word
could possibly carry
everything I mean.
Because pretty
doesn't explain
why I remember
the way sunlight
rests on your face.
Pretty
doesn't explain
why your name
makes me smile
before I've even
read the message.
Pretty
doesn't explain
why I imagine
your hand
finding mine
like it already knows
where it belongs.
Or why,
every now and then,
I wonder
what it would be like
to kiss you.
Just once.
Just to know.
Then I laugh.
That's ridiculous.
Girls admire girls.
Girls think
other girls
are beautiful.
Girls write poems
about each other.
Girls get nervous
around pretty girls.
Girls wonder
what it would be like
to fall asleep
with their forehead
against another girl's shoulder.
...right?
So I tell myself
you're just my friend.
I just notice things.
I just think
your laugh
could fix bad days.
I just think
your eyes
look like home.
I just think
your voice
makes ordinary words
sound beautiful.
I just think
your hand
belongs in mine.
I just think
I'd like to kiss you.
I'm not gay.
I'm just writing poems
about one girl.
I'm just imagining
what it would feel like
to love her.
I'm just wondering
whether she'd smile
if I reached
for her hand.
I'm just hoping
she might look at me
the way
I already look at her.
I'm not gay.
I keep saying it
like a prayer.
Like if I repeat it
often enough,
my heart
will finally listen.
So when my friends ask,
I smile.
"No,"
I say.
"I'm not gay."
I only write
love poems
about one girl.
I only dream
about kissing
one girl.
I only imagine
growing old
beside one girl.
That doesn't mean
anything.
...right?
I stand
in front of the mirror
and say it again.
"I'm not gay."
The mirror
never argues.
It never agrees,
either.
It only watches
while I practice
turning love
into excuses.
And every poem
I write
to prove
I'm not in love
becomes
another love poem
with your name
between the lines.