breaking my fist into concrete on los robles boulevard . watching it bleed with little dirt specks in between my knuckles and veins . throbbing and shooting pain all the way up to my neck .
if there was ever an occurence to describe that relationship, that would be it .
as i sit at this poorly named kickback , my fists sense concrete . there he is ;
i want to strangle him by the tears that he used to cause back in the day . when i was lost in a maze of my own inhabitions and insecurities . phone calls and texts and aims and myspace and eyes and ears and nose and mouth ... oh that mouth . the mouths that spread my humilation like wildfire in the streets . the mouth she used on you to cause earthquakes in a love expected to withstand the test of time . i bounced off of the diving board, did three flips and soared headfirst into the deep end . i smashed my face into the off-white concrete . left with a broken nose, ruptured eye, blood in my mouth and a fractured heart . when i hopped out of the pool.. it was a " you just dont pick up and leave and leave me sick like that ." cliche like always .
war wounds are only grounds for reflexion and growth .
as i sit at the kickback, my heart feels compassion for a boy who will never know me like he did. as he blows up my phone after, trying to reconcile. trying to push me off the diving board again . he does it in vain . we both know ... that i know ... what i deserve . we both know ... that i know ... what im worth . we both know ill be sending him a postcard from the land of happiness .