8 reasons i couldn’t stay:

you weren’t ready to dance when I was.

you let my hand go in the essence of a mosh pit

and I've been lost since.

you fell asleep on the couch

comfortably, book in hand

while i was broken on the bathroom floor

asking god to take me.

you would have let him take me.

you loved me the way your

dad loved your mom,

but i no longer accept 

men with conditional traits.

I continued loving,

you continued lusting

over people who were not me.

I was made with spiritual glitter

and faithful glue, i was given

wings you tried to cut 

and a voice you tried to silence.

you left scars on me that will never let me forget

what love isn’t.

you thought i’d stick around

until i figured out how beautiful we could have been.

but i planted scriptures in your palm that 

no one else could understand.

and now they wonder why i left a mark on you,

so stunning, so soft

and why i’m nowhere to be found. 

roses don’t have an ego, you do.

memories came flooding out of a half drained vase;

an unrequited love.

the porcelain that once held those flowers

have wilted.

after all, roses don’t have an ego,

you do.

visions i didn’t know my body kept tucked 

far away came back, 

asking where you went

I don’t know what to tell them. 

you ran away

then ran right back at me.

fast was never my pace.

I started to trip on your mind before 

I saw the dark spikes you kept

outside your front door.

electric shocks have become our greeting.

still, i can hear you asking me to sing

but you forgot that i lost my voice

the day after we met. 

yelling has a strain,

have you forgotten that too?

(how do you tell someone you’ve seen their heart change colours?)

you left love notes in the attic,

tucked behind boxes i turned into a studio.

a practise, a past-time, a once was.

we never believed in the same things.

we never needed to.

you understood money

but i was too rich to care.

you’ll never understand

wealth of the mind,

just like i’ll never understand you.

you told me to come back,

but i finally

found my voice 

under a box full of broken petals.

About the author

Tasheal Gill

Tasheal is a screenwriter and poet who believes creativity fuels true happiness. She is studying Film Production at UBC.

More by Tasheal Gill
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