falling stars are not romantic

i.
i was a small speck of moon rock caught out of orbit
and you were a planet,
and to all of your oceans and landscapes,
i had been nothing but stardust.


ii.
you were a powerful addiction
the likes of which i could not quit
(the first hit's free, kid, what harm could it do)
and as much as i struggled to hide the bloodshot eyes
and track marks
and trembling fingers trying to undo your zippers and belts,
i never could, not ever.
i have always been much too terrible at keeping secrets
and you have always been a much too terrible secret
that i have never meant to hide.


iii.
a small fly caught in a web
knows before it ever really knows
that it will be the spider's next meal.
similarly, i knew before i ever truly knew you
that you would be the one to capture me
in your tangled net of deceit
and drink me dry.
you were not a breathy, romantic edward cullen
seeking reform--
no, you were a power thirsty dracula
and i, a breathless bride
begging to be taken.


iv.
grief strikes the heart like a bullet
and, honey, i am certainly no superman--
i am only clark kent, just a normal kid
looking for a little normalcy in a world without any,
not immune to the shots you fire.
and, boy, did you fire off a strong one:
a weapon of lies and adultery and
hostility and anger,
a silver bullet to shoot down my propositions
before they are uttered.
the despair in my veins is so heavy
that i bend until
i break.


v.
whenever i drink stale,
bitter coffee
(no cream, no sugar),
i think of you
because the aftertaste is exactly
the same.


vi.
you are a hole in the sidewalk.
i have fallen in too many times,
not knowing where i am
or what i am doing,
until the falling became a habit that i could not quit.
(you are a drug, baby, and i am hooked.)
the time came when i learned, finally,
to climb out of the hole,
and then the time when i walked around it
instead of falling in.

now i have reached the place
where i am walking down
a different road
entirely.