The Boy For Whom I've Been Consumed

Standing still and straight,
I want to bend my hands back
and back and back
until the tingling in my wrists
becomes a tearing.
I want to feel the blood
in its life-death torrent;
I want to feel it warm
then cold against my skin.

I'm standing in the cold night,
wanting to become
the endless wind
and chill him.
For once, I want to
chill him.

I didn't expect to see him;
I'd hoped I would
and prayed I wouldn't.
I squealed
and I can't imagine
how happy I must have looked.
I was in his arms
and off the ground,
and its those moments
that won't let me let go.
I have to let go.

Leaning against
a dying tree,
I watched him pick away at the bark
(just like I used to do,
back before I was allowed
to feel so alone),
I watched chips flying to the ground,
and he laughed nervously
and avoided my eyes
and swore he really wouldn't
touch pot again;
it had been a one-time break
in his original vow.

I wanted to scream and hurt him,
instead he left
and I almost cried.
I fought it
and it was only a friend's stupidity
that let me win:
"but all our friends
do pot," she said.
So I can be mad at her instead.

Remember what you told me?
Remember what you swore to me?
If you die, then I die
(and she dies, and he dies).
But if I die, will you cry?
Will you care?

I got up the guts
to ask him if we were still friends,
and I got mumbles and shrugs
and a "sure, I guess we are,"
and I should know by now
that guys just can't do this 'emotions' thing.
A quick hug,
with my hand lingering on his bare chest,
then I was out of there
so I would be alone
and free to sob like I wanted.

Standing still and straight,
the cold wind seems to circle me
and make my own personal
frozen tornado,
forcing me to stay in place
lest I be blown away.
The tingling in my wrists
has moved through my arms,
numbing and killing
and I wish I could die.
I wish I could die,
I wish I could die.
Then I wish I could linger long enough
to see if I finally made him cry.

Wolves were born to hunt alone.
Never forget that.
Never forget me.