You were the box of matches my mother hid
in the top kitchen cup board
and i was the girl who wanted to play with fire.

You didn’t want to hold the hand of an innocent school girl,
too naïve to solve Your riddles.
so i rimmed my eyes with dark charcoal
to look old enough to please You.
You hated forest green,
the color of my school girl eyes.

we heated up Your blue-weathered couch
before watching an episode of a show i didn’t know the name of
when the words,
“Damn she’s beautiful”
spilled from Your over-kissed lips.
my uneven brows knitted together
in wonder why You would ever use that word,
beautiful
to describe me.
how silly of me to think
that word was my adjective.
instead it belonged to the platinum blonde’s d cups,
spilling out of her forest green v-neck.
You didn’t hate forest green on her.

i found small square packets
hidden in the leather folds of Your wallet.
You told me You had them,
“just in case”
just in case You found the chance to steal my last bit of innocence?
or just in case You found another girl who would give it up easier?

sunday mornings You drink from a cup filled with the blood of christ;
friday nights You worship well-mixed liquor
and a brown bottle of blasphemy.
You make the redemption cup
at the other end of a plastic fold-out table
and no,
i’m not talking about jesus.

so when “god told You” that i scuffed up Your sanctified mask,
i threw away my i-love-you-i-love-you-not petals
because i would no longer need to remember
if i still loved You.
i held You like You were heaven
and You left me like i was hell.

i don’t know why You thought it was okay
to believe You were worth the wait,
but i wasn’t.
i never was, in Your eyes.

You loved like a thief,
stealing only the desirable pieces of my heart,
but leaving shattered glass inside me;
a fragmented mirror that reflected a broken girl
who did not exist in november.
all i ask is that You don’t forget that
seven months ago
You conjured a hurricane
and i succumbed to Your breath-taking winds.