words of the selfish girl I used to be

I.
The number of people
who have asked me
what I want
out of this life
is so large
that I think Einstein,
even in all his glory,
might not have been able
to count
that high.
I flash a charming grin
and lie through my teeth.
I tell them I want a career,
or financial relief,
or perhaps a bit of history
to claim for my own,
if I'm feeling particularly
daring.

What do I really want?
This is my most honest answer,
the things I want
more desperately
than air,
that I will never say
out loud.
These are the things
so bare in construction
that they astound
even me.
I'm not yet willing to admit
such defeat,
or proclaim such selfishness
aloud,
but I will write it out
for all those who wonder
what lies I told them.

II.
I want my place to stay
mine.
I want your heart to stay
mine.
I want your love to stay
mine.
I want you to go back
to being
mine.
I don't ever
want to see another girl
sitting on my
fucking
pedestal.
I never want to hear you
tell them you'll love them
"forever and always".
It all feels like 
it should still be
mine.

I don't care how I sound
to anyone's ears,
or if they think me mad,
you are still
mine.
Cosmically,
elementally,
spiritually,
through blood
or water
or lie.
I feel wrong,
down to my very core
and the blood running through me, when I imagine
a day
where I become
the second best,
or the silver medal.
I quite like my spot as the gold.
Please let me stay
gold.

III.
I don't know
what sentences I can string
together senselessly
to make me sound
any less insane.
I can't stop
trying to make whatever we are work.
There's too much
to hold onto,
too much to let go of.
It's not what I want.

I don't want the letters
I wrote you
to be something you read
in place of lullabies
to your children
while your wife waits
in the adjacent room.
I don't want you to laugh
as you tell them all
about the girl
you used to love,
used to want,
used to need.
I want us to laugh
about them
and how clumsy they sounded,
how young we were
when we found something
so intricate
and breathtaking,
and know
they will never
be the last.

I can't stand the thought
of that awful girl,
or any girl for that matter,
(her especially),
standing where I should be.
It should be me.
You promised it would be,
and it's not.
It's not
it's not
it's not.
I can feel you slipping,
falling into other places
with other girls.
I feel like I'm the only one
not
satisfied.

IV.
They all say life
doesn't owe us a dime,
but I've been fucked over
twenty ways to Sunday
and I think I deserve
the goddamn lotto.
I'm no fucking beggar, though.
I've gone my whole life
not asking for a thing,
taking table scraps
at every corner
and bend.
One day something comes along
worth begging for,
and I don't get
to keep it.
How do I not
feel cheated?
How am I expected
to not be angry?
You were the one thing
I gave in for,
allowed myself to want
instead of accept
what I'm given.
This isn't a pity party,
but for once
it would be nice
to not be the only one
crying.

If you don't come back,
when I die
I'm calling God
into the interrogation room.
He'll be privy to dealing
with something
a little less than holy
when I ask him
why he took you away.
I hope he's scared.
He has every right to be.
All I did was ask
but he brought me to my knees
and now my legs
feel so numb
I don't know if I can stand
alone.

V.
I want your girl
to know
you promised me
every ounce of love
in your ragtag heart.
I want her to know
you said
you saved none for her,
or any other.
I want her to know
she has nothing
on me.
(I was first, I was first.)
I put you back together,
she can never take that away
from me.
I want to believe
I'm irreplaceable.
Does it ever feel wrong
to call her yours?
To tell her you love her?
Do you ever mistake
those blue eyes
for brown?
I want to believe you do,
almost as much
as I want to believe
wishing all of this
is fine.

VI.
I wish I carried silence
as well as you
always have.
You wear the quiet
like a cape and crown,
as the king
of tranquility
you bear the weight
as easily as you pull triggers.
I just seem to disappear
in it.

I'm missing out
on what everyone calls
the golden years,
the golden era.
I'm not privileged enough
to get to see you
pound the asphalt
with that little spark
of youth
I know you carry.
(You don't fool me,
I know for a fact
I wasn't the only
wild one.)

I've given up
on explaining all of this
to anyone,
because all I get is questions
that lead to
"let go"s
and
"don't you want him to be happy?"s
and
"he would want you to love again"s
and if I hear
another pep talk
I'm going to put my fist
through a wall.
Maybe I'll find the response
I'm looking for
in my split knuckles,
or the bill my mom pays
for the damages.

Nobody will ever hear
the story I tell them
about the feelings I feel
in regards to you
with another
and say
"I completely understand"
without a shred
of a lie.
Nobody knows the sour taste
in my mouth
that she leaves,
or the visceral resentment
that settles in the pit
of my stomach
when I hear her name
following yours.
Her name sounds anything
but beautiful
to me.

VII.
I really do hate
talking about you
like a prize.

("Come back, trophy boy.")

In every other aspect,
I stand firmly on grounds
that you have claim
to nobody.
I tell people that to love
is to wish solace.
To let go.
Another exception,
another piece of advice
I don't take
but I hand out
like Halloween candy.
The "H" in my name
stands for hypocrite
nowadays.

Why is it always you?
You just had to
stroll into my life
and become a figurehead,
or the worst kind
of martyr.
I can't ever reminisce
about you
and make it sound poetic.
I lack my usual storyteller's lustre
and the words
to make pain turn to pretty.
You are a topic
which turns my wishes
to broken dreams
and my poems
to confessionals.
Nothing I write with you
in mind
sounds pleasant,
but more like a few metaphors
wrapped up in emotions
so harsh and raw
that they almost become
ugly.

I wish my tongue
would let me tell you
all of this.
I know you wouldn't want
me to feel
this way.
This isn't about that,
though.
They all ask me what I want
so I'm finally giving them
what they're waiting
to hear.
This is what I want.

VIII.
Try and remember
how hard I am to comprehend,
it may help you read this
reconciliation,
this admission,
full of contradictions
that live to complicate.
What I feel like
I've been trying
to say
is that I will never stop
wishing you happiness,
but I'll always hope
you find it with me.

Maybe you need to taste
a little more life,
and that is okay.
If you must,
go out and live
your wild years.
Life free of conscience or restraint,
live free of chains and expectations.
When you're finished,
I hope your
roller-coaster journey
leads you
back to me.
You will find that my door
will be unlocked,
and you can make yourself
at home.
(I will be waiting.)