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.