These words are my apology
because I gave you the eye of my storm.
These words are the sunken treasure you may never find
in my sea of guilt,
buried so deep even the oil patches won’t recognize them.
These letters are the stitches
to sew pieces I forgot to pick up.
I wanted to be the patch on your jacket,
a ghost in your memory,
the time you remember impressing everyone,
even yourself.
I wanted to be a moment you’d always remember.
Like the time you got so drunk,
you slammed that girl on the hood of your car
and told all your friends.
But I didn’t want to be that girl.
I wanted to be in your trophy case.
I wanted to hold the torch in my golden fists
like a first-prize champion,
carrying the flames of something slight
that meant enough for the both of us
to hold above my head.

About Ry

It's so magical, it's gay.
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