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I wrote this poem one month before you finally told me that you love me

"Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have," Lana sings

When I listen to her I remember a time

where I tried to disappear

Drinking rosé as I walked over the Williamsburg bridge

listening to the cacophony of the trains passing by

fantasizing about the tracks below and the stars above

The last time I loved someone like this

they disappeared without warning

and I was left, dancing at Le Bain at 2am

in a tight pink dress

Staring out the tall windows across the Hudson River

while my friends laughed and strangers tried to touch me

Through the drunken haze I wondered

what was so goddamn wrong with me

that someone who I was so right for, so right with

just couldn't see it. Couldn't say it.

Actions speak louder, sure

but I've always chosen my words carefully.

The strength I've found to write my own narrative

still can't erase the time when my tears were razor blades

and scars traced their way up my arm from wrist to elbow

Sometimes when we're lying in bed

you hold me as if I could disappear at any second

and press your forehead against mine

as if you want me to know, just know

without having to say it.

But I don't. I can't.

Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have, but I have it.

I can hold on forever, and I will,

but the memories always come back, reminding me:

I am the girl whose hand they only hold in the dark

who they first kiss in the basement at a frat house party

who is too much and not enough

who always falls first

and does it alone.

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