Every Last Word

He laughs. “I made you feel normal? You do realize I’m pretty far from normal, right?”

“I don’t care,” I say, brushing my lips against his. “I like you too much. Remember?”

I kiss his dimple first, and then I cover his mouth with mine, kissing him, thinking about how perfect he is, maybe not in every way, but in every way I need him to be. And I’m so relieved when he kisses me back. I feel the thoughts that have haunted me for the last four days pop like bubbles, disappearing into the air, one by one.

“I like you too much, too,” he says.

“Still?” I ask.

“Still,” he says with a huge smile on his face. “Way, way too much.”

my friends are normal. And perfect. They pride themselves on normalcy and perfection, and they can’t ever find out how far I am from those two things.

Still, I can hear this one thought hiding in the dark corners of my mind. It doesn’t attack like the others, but it’s frightening in a totally different way. Because it’s the one that never leaves. And it’s the one that scares me most.

What if I’m crazy?

I laugh. “Why would I want to write about a piece of furniture?” I have a mental illness and four superficial friends. Surely I have more fodder for a poetic career than to need an ugly orange couch

because my friends are normal. And perfect. They pride themselves on normalcy and perfection, and they can’t ever find out how far I am from those two things.

“You seem to know how to articulate your feelings and share them with other human beings. I’m afraid my gift is the exact opposite; I’m skilled at holding everything in.”

someone’s always the odd girl out. Often, that’s me

It’s called “Every Last Word.” I read to myself this time.

These walls heard

me when no

one else could.

They gave my

words a home,

kept them safe.

Cheered, cried, listened.

Changed my life

for the better.

It wasn’t enough.

But they heard

every last word.

I cover my mouth, tears streaming down my face. It’s written in threes.

He looks right at me. “This is called ‘Wondering.’ I wrote this in my room a while ago.” His eyes never leave mine.

After you left

I stared at the driveway

Feeling its emptiness

Wondering if you’d return.

After you left

I thought about your questions

Wishing I hadn’t been so blunt

Wondering if I scared you away.

After you left

I remembered how you felt in my arms.

How you fit so perfectly there. Like my guitar.

Wondering if I should have kissed you when I had the chance.

After you left

I sat in my room

Remembering all the things you said, and

Wondering about all the things you didn’t.

After you left

I sat in silence.

Missing you in a way I didn’t quite understand.

Wondering if you’d ever come back.

“Really?”

“Really. We’re just…different, Sam. In every way that matters.”

We.

He doesn’t say we’re better. He doesn’t say he loves me more than he loved her. And that’s okay; he doesn’t need to, because now his fingers are in my hair and his mouth is on mine, and my thoughts are all about him and this different thing we have,