Bottlefly Wings

Tinder Guy.

A boyfriend would care about the fact that I am trapped beneath a weight of sadness, alone in my bed, half crying, half too broken for the tears to actually come out.

But you didn’t want a girlfriend, and I didn’t want a boyfriend; so, you don’t have to care.

A little colour swatch poem I wrote which I think came from this feeling too. 

Sometimes you pretend to though; whether in a secluded act to make me trust you enough to pull the fabric from around my skin, or whether a genuine attempt to make me feel safe is unclear.

But I’m here, broken.

I’m so aware now of why they keep leaving, of why I’m easy to replace, of why I’ve never left them sad or broken, simply relieved or numb. I warned you. So why are you mad at me? Why are you angry with me for not being reliable or committed or even happy?

You said you didn’t want a girlfriend.

You try to use it to your advantage, but I’ve seen this before, manipulation at its finest. If I really cared I’d do it… well there’s the thing, honey, I don’t care.

I imagine you’re not aching in your heart and your hands like I am; you’re aching between your hips but that’s not my problem. Just like it isn’t yours that I’ve been chewed up and spat out and am not worth bothering with. No. Not my problem, that’s what you have hands for.

It's funny how you think that one swiping motion makes you physically and digitally entitled to my body.

I didn’t let you in so that you could use my scars to paint your own pretty little picture; no. It’s nice to fill your time with something, don’t flatter yourself with pleasantries. I had to learn the hard way people don’t always mean what they say, I’m helping you along, you’ll thank me later.

You love yourself a lot, more than you could ever love me, I know that. But in desperate attempts to distract myself from the pain ripping me apart beneath my ribs, I imagine what I would say if you ever told me you loved me.

Would it warm me up inside? Would I feel something this time? Would all my broken bones fix together as if they were never crushed beneath the weight of an impossible commitment?

I start to wonder what happened to me. What happened to the pretty, skinny, hopefully naïve fifteen-year-old who could love with all her heart as if the universe was at her fingertips.

Fuck knows.

Until I figure it out I’ll keep messaging but don’t get your hopes up; people like me and people like you are destined to never be touched by love.

Ivy

If I wasn’t a wildflower, the book would end differently. If I blended into the bed of roses like a beautiful star amongst thousands of others, it’d be worth the risk. If I wasn’t slightly broken, if I wasn’t impatient and flawed, if I didn’t hold onto things and grow where I’m not wanted; you’d be here, and it would end differently.

Who would choose to plant a weed in their own garden?

If I wasn’t a wildflower competing with a Lily, then maybe you’d have chosen me all along. Maybe you’d never have discovered the beauty of an artificial, mechanical garden where you can pick and choose rather than love what you’ve been given.

It counts for nothing really, when all is said and done. You can pluck me from the ground and discard me, I keep coming back, popping my head above the ground; surprise, me again. It means nothing. A heart full of desire and longing, I’d never let you down, I’d be something different, something exciting.

But no. They’re prettier of course, ‘natural blondes’, more convenient, less effort. People ask less questions. 

If I wasn’t a wildflower, there would have been no debate, no tangent to get lost in, no phone calls that you’d regret in the morning. If I wasn’t a wildflower, I wouldn’t be used to it, I wouldn’t need to understand your dilemma.

But I’m not a Rose, I’m not polished, I don’t have a suit of armour built from thorns to shield myself; it all seeps in and tears me apart from inside. I’m weak. I’m a flight risk.

Some have had me mistaken for poison ivy; something evil or dangerous, something damaged, a lost cause. Maybe they were right and that’s why.

I sometimes wonder if I should just let myself wilt and shrivel; maybe when you realise my worth you can revive me a little with some sugar water and empty promises.

But the truth is, I’m not worth saving, not when you can’t purchase the right seeds from a big green garden centre and recreate my magic; too much effort right?

Maybe next time I should let the wind carry me away, pop up somewhere on the side of a road, I’ll get used to people coming and going. Maybe then I’ll accept that none of it was real.

If I had an identity, a name or an image, if I was a Daisy,

then maybe?