Your love for me was always so western.

The way you’d pour your lips into mine

like a double shot of whiskey.

I stumbled a lot.

The way your touch made me

dizzy-head-spin fumble for your arms,

try to pull them over me

like the leather jacket

I wanted you so badly to be.

You told me that I too often jump the gun.

I know it’s true,

but I can’t help it.

Maybe if you could see the way your eyes

looked like love made between iron and rain

you’d understand.

If you could see the red-orange rusting

combusting in on your irises,

you’d understand.

But you couldn’t see that could you?

You told me that when you looked in the mirror

all you saw was a ghost town.

Just jaw harp pluckin’

and tumbleweed truckin’.

You felt empty.

I know you can’t give

what you don’t think you have,

but you tried anyway.

I loved you for it.

You gathered all the glass in your house,

melted it down and blew me a cup.

I could never drink my fill

because you were a desert,

and your love:

A mirage.

An oasis just out of reach

no matter how long

I crawled through your sands.

You could have blown me a bigger cup.

You see you forgot to melt down

the glass shards that litter your floors.

I know you’ve learned

to step forward reluctantly,

but I was willing to take this step with you.

I was willing to take your hand

across these shards

and show you that broken bottles

melt so much easier

than stained glass cathedrals.

You never listened.

Instead you loved me

like your ghost town saloon.

Swinging doors wide open for my entry,

but left unlocked for when I’d stumble out

after last call.

I don’t remember when you last called.

All I remember is you watching me leave.

Just staring at the back of my head,

not even trying to take my keys.

You just stood there,

like you’d hope I’d crash

and just lay in the wreckage. 

You talk about your colorblindness

like it’s a curse,

But I can’t help but envy you.

I envy the way you see shades of people

Instead of races,

We must all look the same to you.

Just flat people wearing flat things.

Plain faces saying plain things.

But when you look at me

I like to imagine that you’re watching

A classic film,

Like I’m Ilsa and you’re Rick Blaine,

Like you’re remembering a time before color.

I bet this city looks so perfect

through your eyes.

The way these clouds shower these streets

In the grayest of scales,

The way this rain washes the pigment

from our skin.

You’ll never see the way my brown eyes

light up when you smile,

When you talk,

When you comb my hair with your fingertips.

I’m afraid that you’ll never see

the way my face flushes

Whenever you stand this close.

I’m afraid to let you stand this close.

I’m afraid that London

would look like home to you.

I’m afraid you’d pack up and leave for a place

A little more monochromatic.

I’m afraid you’d leave

like everyone tends to leave.

So I’ll try to look at you through your eyes,

See you flat and plain

So that when you leave

you’ll just blend into the background.

It’s not working very well.

Even when I force my eyes to desaturate you,

The contrast of your features is even clearer

Without all that distracting color.

I see you dynamic and bold

Through every filter I try to cover you with.

Maybe I should just stop.

Maybe I should just take you as you are

And see you the way these eyes want to.

Maybe I should stop being so afraid.

We’re not living in Casablanca,

So maybe we can write our own ending.

We all fuck up.

But as human beings it our responsibility

To learn and grow from our mistakes.

I learned from the best,

Because you were the queen of fuck ups.

You didn’t do much learning or growing,

But I did enough for the both of us.

Do you remember that time

When you crashed the quad

Into a barbed wire fence?

It took us half an hour to untangle ourselves

From that pokey metal mess.

I learned to never let you drive.

Do you remember that time

When you dropped out of beauty school

But continued to cut my hair?

I learned to never let you cut my hair.

We were both so young back then

But you never did much learning or growing.

My father told me that you stopped taking

Your birth control 8 months before my birthday.

He told me that you kept me a secret,

Like I was the biggest, the best surprise

An unknowing husband could have.

When I was pulled into this world

and met his eyes,

I knew I was no secret.

I was a lie.

When you pulled the confetti gun

Hidden in your navel,

The tension in his jaw told me

That I was no surprise.

I was a mistake.

I was an accident.

I was the fear that your ghosts

Would live on through me,

Perpetuating a cycle he only wanted to end.

I was a floating bottle caught

Between his ship out at sea

And your lantern that was trying

to be a light house.

We were all so young,

But at least I knew you loved me.

I still don’t know when that changed.

I find myself tracing back birthdays

Trying to make sense of it all.

All I see are you ever so frequent absences.

They didn’t use to be so long.

But as the story of my life

started to write itself down,

you began ripping our paper.

You chewed on the corners

Letting your gums bleed out the words

you didn’t like.

Before I knew it you were grabbing

fist full’s of pages,

Tearing them away from your sight.

I can’t help but to think that you were scared.

You were scared to see my character

Beat down and bloodied

For the mistakes you made.

You were scared to see the pain of it all

Lift him into the back of an ambulance

After a failed suicide attempt.

You were scared to see him stand up

And reclaim his life as a man

With no help from you because

You were too scared to admit you fucked up.

You fucked up.

We all fuck up.

I’m 18 now mother,

And you’ve been gone for over a year this time.

It kills me to think that you don’t

even know who I am.

It’s been 18 years and 8 months

Since you fucked up,

And I’ve learned in that time

Not to expect presents.

But this year I have one for you.

It’s a book.

I know you don’t read much

But I wrote it for you

In hopes you’d learn about my story.

So please,

Take it.

Read it carefully.

Press you lips to the trembling letters

Where your biggest mistake turned into a man.

In the end,

I think you’d love me.

I think you’d be proud.