I miss 
I want to scream over it again 
I want to let myself cry about it one more time 
“Please, just listen to me. You don’t understand how I feel.” 
“It’s not worth it to think about that again.”       
“Just let go of him already.” 
“You can find someone better than he ever was.” 
“You’re better than that.” 
I won’t admit to any of them that I miss what was. 
I know it’s bad, but it feels good to feel.... just to let go. 
What do I miss? 
Why do I miss it? 
I miss him 
I miss his voice 
I miss his face 
I miss his hair 
I miss his lips 
I miss his smile 
I miss his excitement 
I miss his hilarious jokes 
I miss the way he would hug me 
I miss the way he looked at me 
I miss his hand overtaking mine 
I miss his sweet words when he just woke up 
I miss the voice recordings he sent when he waited for me to wake 
I miss his texts 
I miss when he called 
I miss the way he made time for me 
I miss the way he still loved me even when he was tired 
I miss the way he complained when I had to hang up 
I miss the way he would hold me 
I miss the dates we had on the weekend 
I miss going to cheer him on at football games 
I miss his childish voice when he was with me 
I miss sleeping on the phone with him 
I miss being in silence with him 
I miss the way he encouraged me 
I miss when he said that I could do it 
I miss the way he made me finish what I started 
I miss the way he believed in me when I was terrified 
I miss the way he pushed me to keep going when I felt like I couldn’t 
I miss the fact that he knew I was capable of more 
I miss all the ways he loved me  
Such little things he did to show me he cared. 
Little things made me infatuated with him. 
I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting to relive what I felt. 
If I die, 
And I still love these things 
It shows I meant what I said,  
I said what I meant 
When I said- 
~ I love you 
I wish I had that again. 
I know it will never happen with him again 
We were a full chalice of love 
But he began taking the blood as he kept gambling his own 
The chalice was nearly empty 
It was his next turn. He noticed her on the table for a winning prize. 
When I wanted him to stop, or win before, he couldn’t 
It was like he prayed to God and asked for a win in that moment 
His prayer was answered. 
Again, I was the one that the angels beat and drug to their brother, Satan. 
The liar was not the woman this time, but the man that was created in who’s image? 
Maybe God is the liar and the under lord is the truth.  
Maybe it’s all sugar coated (like the cookies and sweets we used to eat on dates).  
Maybe my tastebuds have just changed 
 and gotten to finally taste the truth. 
His mouthwatering lies. His crap-tasted truth. 
 
He no longer smiles at me. 
He doesn’t smile for himself. 
He smiles for a moment; maybe half that. 
I don’t smile for anyone. 
Especially him. 
I smile for me. 
I smile for the blood he took from me. 
I smile for the heart he cut open 
devoured, slurped, scratched, touched, kissed, bit, ate, threw, cut, swallowed 
That was the old heart.  
She did me a good job and served her time. 
Maybe I don’t cry for him, 
But for her. 
Maybe I am upset because it wasn’t me that he hurt, 
But her. 
I moved on from her and buried her in my stomach. 
I ate her while crying the last of the blood she had to give. 
She told me about a friend she had. 
I went to find that “friend”. 
The friend gave themselves up to me. 
They told me that they will finally serve their debt for her. 
Maybe that is true love. 
 
Love. 
Do I even know what that is anymore?  
How could I even describe the feelings that follow Love? 
Where do I even find the words?  
Or the people to use as an example? 
I could use my own dead and bloody love. 
I could use his cupid love. 
 
He was so beautiful with acne. 
He smelled insecure; I wanted to fix that. 
He tasted like sexual songs you listen to when taking a shower. 
He felt like acid on your vocal cords. 
He sounded like cats in the alley way; they never shut up 
He was so bad that  
I felt the need to fix him.