What I Wanted
The day i watched you walk away i bought a knife.
see, you got under my skin and i wanted to
cut you out from under it.
the day you wrapped your hand around my heart
and squeezed in places where i'd shown you it would hurt most
i got to use the knife but all i did was
they say to turn the other cheek but i've already turned
enough of myself to you.
i wanted to make you turn instead.
i wanted to sneak past your every wall like i let you sneak
i wanted to get under your skin and wrap myself around your veins,
fit myself in hollow places inside your ribcage,
make it hard to breathe,
be the lump in your throat, be the sores on your skin, beat beat beat in your
temples like the worst headache you've ever had.
they say, revenge will not bring you happiness.
well, i call bullshit on the oppressive notion we're not supposed
to fight back but
if i'm being honest i wanted to get inside you because i
because clinging to you like a parasite was better than
walking around like my chest was dug open with a rusty shovel.
i light a cigarette and i think about wanting to be the smoke in your lungs
that will kill you one day.
i think about pressing the red hot tip of it to your skin,
imagine how you'll hiss and cringe as it burns through your epidermis.
does it make me twisted if i also think about
in this moment?
you wormed your way inside me. i'm using a nasty word like 'worm' because i really want to paint you
are you one?
you saw the bits that made me and i wanted you to love them.
you liked them enough to be afraid.
i asked if i were a puzzle to you, and you said yes.
how fair is it for me to be angry when i view every person
as a story?
i kneel on the floor and i want to unpack my groceries
but here i am crying
with a bag of cucumbers in my lap instead.
do you think i'm crying because i wanted your story to be
they write poems about selfless love.
i don't understand the word 'love'.
i understand wanting to
hook my legs around your waist and watch your eyes roll back; i understand
doing a victory dance inside my head every time your hand reaches for mine;
listening to secrets of yours not one soul will ever know and
feeling like you're handing me the pieces of your story.
i don't quite know what it means to love somebody;
i'm not sure if i'm capable of what they call love.
i know i am capable of craving to
devour someone like a new book.
i think i cried on the floor with my cucumbers because
you might be a story i want to reread.
i don't know if i miss you because i miss you or because
i miss how it feels to be me when i'm with you.
i say i'm upset because you're selfish but to tell you the truth
i was never coming from a selfless place myself.
the bad thing about seeing stories in everyone is
seeing every ugly bit of my own, and so
i want people to love me not because i love them
but because i do not love myself.
am i a puzzle you want to repeat?
i wanted to hear you say you're
sorry. i wanted you to type the word
'regret'. i wanted to never leave your thoughts, to be
the buzz at the back of your mind,
to settle myself at the core of your spine and spread down
your every nerve ending. tell me,
did it work?
i wanted you to realise i was being cruel on purpose.
i sit in the dark with a cigarette and the knowledge that
you did. i drag the smoke in and think about a boy who called it
a portion of death. i hold the last of the smoke in, let it
linger and curl and blacken, and i want it
to be a portion of you. i should've known making you hurt
wouldn't mend any wounds. i put the cigarette out
in my own spit and i wonder if i can be honest
enough to admit it's because what i really wanted
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Comments about this poem (What I Wanted by Juna Razan )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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