Nineteen. Mechanical Engineering Major. Colombian and Guatemalan. Lone Wolf.
A part of me wants you
in the most innocent way possible:
taking off your shoes in my bedroom,
climbing under the sheets and watching
whatever’s in my Netflix queue,
barely even touching
as we talk about our days until we
fall asleep with our
clothes still on.
But another, hungrier part of me
wants you unbuttoning your shirt
before you’re completely through my door,
falling onto my bed, and
scrambling to make your fingers
unbutton my shirt faster
Your mouth shaking out
my name the entire time.
Heartbreak isn’t beautiful. It isn’t fucking poetry, it’s not staying up ‘til 4 am listening to sad songs. It’s breaking down in the middle of a busy street. It’s seeing their face in all the people you pass by. It’s feeling okay for weeks at a time and then all of a sudden, you feel the ghost of their lips on your neck and their nails on your back and then you’re choking on memories of their presence. It’s waking up from dreams of them coming back and screaming in the middle of the night because your chest aches like a rotting tooth. Stop romanticizing pain. Stop using people like they’re objects. A heart isn’t a cigarette - you can’t just light it up and then stomp it out when you’re done. Don’t act like anything about heartbreak is beautiful, because I wouldn’t wish that feeling upon my worst of enemies.