All the Unrequited Collection, Part Two

ME AND YOU ARE WHO
by Andie Bottrell

Who am I and
who are you?

I’m just a girl in
a black dress,
a black hat.

You are just a boy
one state over.

I tell you secrets,
I type them into
this machine.

You send me
sweet replies,
sometimes.

I am one, and
you are one,
together,
we would be two.

Together we
would be, too,
but we are not
together.

I am just a girl
in a black dress
and a black hat,

and you are
just the boy
the next state
over.

FIRST DATE
by Andie Bottrell

constant nerves,
a jittering jaw,
this is
falling for you

there is nothing
I can do, but
wait, anticipate,
hate every word
that I let out
of my mouth,
regret any un-
flattering action
I let slide out
from under my
drunken watch

this is the day,
the morning after,
the reliving of a
goodbye kiss, the
evaluation of what
I would or
would not
miss

I wait for contact
from you

and at moments
these hunger pains
for you
overcome me so
strongly that it
gives me chills
and i feel sick

WINE STAINED LIPS
by Andie Bottrell

My lips are still stained from the wine.

In between the smooth ridges
are harsh, deep red lines.

I love the severity of dark lips
on pale skin.

I feel sexy in it.

My hair cascading a mess
of curls upon curls,
reddish brown.

A furrow frown.

My curves feel
accentuated by the
exercises I’ve be doing.

And all this,
all this,
all this…

Yes, all this.

I keep to myself.

Afraid of your affection,
too sensitive to touch.

ADDICTED TO THE PAIN
by Andie Bottrell

We are addicted to the pain.

So, you push me away
and at first I turn, but
then turn back,
and politely ask
for more.

At “No.”
my plea becomes a
simple soft spoken,
“…Please.”

At “Go!”
my tone picks up
the panic and runs
straight for the dagger
with “Please, please,
please, please, please!”

And I know where we’re
heading now but I can’t
jump off.

I’m tied to the tracks,
only there’s no actual
rope, there is only my
heart. My heavy, heavy
heart.

And I am here,
where I am not wanted.
And I wont leave, not
because of awkwardness,
or because of your insistence.

I will stay, and you will
grow to resent my existence,
and somehow I will
feed off of that resistance.

We are sick.
We are our own incurable diseases.
We eat off of pain, our 
broken hearts on a platter,
served with the best side dish
you’ve ever had.