He may still love you. He probably does. He probably doesn’t know what he wants. He probably still thinks about you all the time. But that isn’t what matters. What matters is what he’s doing about it, and what he’s doing about it is nothing. And if he’s doing nothing, you most certainly shouldn’t do anything. You need someone who goes out of their way to make it obvious that they want you in their life.



If I could tell my 18-year-old self anything, it would be this: write it down. Write down everything because you will forget it. Keep it for yourself. Keep it on paper in leather-bound notebooks and stock pile them. Turns of phrases that haunt you, poems that rhyme too much and not at all,…


You walk like a metaphor
carrying yourself with the swagger of a lineman,
yet afraid of your own shadow.
Sometimes you catch me staring
which is my futile attempt to preserve every second of this fleeting romance
before you realize
you don’t love me
after all.
You are like a bandaid
a temporary fix
for my crippled heart.
I could trace your bones
with the ashes from late nights spent dulling the pain of previous relationships.

I flash my bedroom eyes—
the ones mama swore would vamp all the boys—
hoping to elicit a response worthy of killing more time,
bare chest
pressed to bare breasts,
nails gripping your back,
to convince myself this is real.
when you kiss my flesh
it takes everything in me
not to peel off the place upon which you pressed your lips
and stick it in a scrapbook made from memories I’m no longer sure ever occurred.

You snuck into my life
like a South Texas rain storm—
and over before it begun.

Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.
Sylvia Plath, my soulmate if there ever was one.