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6 months in the making

staring at the ceiling on an empty stomach
for the third time this week
voices whisper and taunt me that
i haunt nobody's dreams,
nor am i a passing thought
never shown as much love
as i myself brought
to everyone, fuck if i ever
write a poem about anyone again
i wish they could stay there
and then if the ink was ever to bleed
or i hit delete, they would disappear
with it,
god it feels like fucking forever
since someone touched me with intention
so many honorable mentions
in this hall of infamy
i wanted you and you and you
to be interested in me too,
funny how it always ends up
hopelessly romantic and pathetically pedantic 
you're documented in my foolish decision
to turn you into something perfect
you were undeserving,
making me playlists and tainting songs
sorry if this comes across too strong
but i wish i'd never met you sometimes
and you only existed within these lines
the honey that dripped from your lips
onto mine has spoiled, 
i know there's poems written about me 
in books untouched 
on the notes app, and a blog
even though i'll never read them 
it's sad honestly, i bet they were quality
you always had a way with words
but i'll just keep imagining them instead
and hoping, so hard
that you made me more beautiful on paper
than you made me feel in real life


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