the second you hear them say your name
is a million to one:
Picture me,
standing alone,
quietly fantasizing about soft moments,
Holding onto my own hand,
because in the winter,
I just can never seem to get warm.
Maybe I was never thinking about him
all those nights in Ohio,
I'd drift to sleep,
clutching the seams of my skin,
praying that I'd come undone.
Praying that in the morning,
I would have forgotten the life I knew,
and needed desperately to forget.
Maybe I never even loved him.
Maybe all the times I'd write him,
my pleas were falling upon deaf ears.
Maybe I didn't care if it was him holding me,
maybe in the scariest times,
I never wanted him at all.
Maybe I just wanted to be warm.
Maybe the animal in me,
never wanted to be a million to one.
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