Shades of Lovers

Catarine Hancock

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Central Avenue Publishing, an imprint of Central Avenue Marketing Ltd.

www.centralavenuepublishing.com

SHADES OF LOVERS

Trade Paperback: 978-1-77168-222-0

Epub: 978-1-77168-223-7

Mobi: 978-1-77168-224-4

Published in Canada

Printed in United States of America

1. POETRY / Love2. POETRY / Women Authors

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

this is a book of poems

about all kinds

of love:

from the sweeping highs

of first love

to the suffocating lows

of toxicity and abuse,

from being completely shattered

to rebuilding myself,

from being left

to being the one who leaves,

from loving others

to the most important thing of all:

loving myself.

love comes in many colors

ruby red

for two young hearts

falling in love for the first time,

only to have one rip the other

apart at the seams.

ocean blue

for the love that was not ready

and bloomed too soon

between a sad boy and broken girl

who had no idea how to fix what couldn’t be.

primrose pink

for the sweetness shared

between these two;

they had a love like a flower:

it grew, and blossomed, and wilted.

stormy gray

for the hurricane that tore

through her heart and soul;

she was a boat lost at sea

and he was determined to sink her.

golden yellow

for the calm after the storm,

the sun breaking through the clouds—

a love meant to save,

but never meant to stay.

emerald green

for the planting of a sapling

of a love that was going to

take root and grow,

and last and last and last.

trigger warning:

mentions of emotional abuse, body image, and poor mental health.

please take care.

1 ruby red

for two young hearts

falling in love for the first time,

only to have one rip the other

apart at the seams.

did you love me? i’d hope.

did i love you? of course.

did you break my heart? oh, every bit of it.

—some questions and some answers

first love hits at any time.

it doesn’t matter if you’re 12

or 17

or 25;

first love will take you

whenever it pleases.

it slammed into me at 13

in the form of a lanky boy

with lopsided dimples

and hazelnut eyes,

and it stood back and watched

as he cut me open

and let the words out

for the very first time.

people discredit my writing because i am so young. they always have. i started sharing my heart when i was 13, after you left. writing was all i had to cope, to heal. i am 20 now but people still don’t think my words ring true. age to them is an indicator of learning, of wisdom, of weathering.

but listen to me: there are children who are only 10 who have experienced more pain than adults who have lived half a century. there are teenagers who have had more obstacles laid across their paths than my grandparents.

i was not one of those children, nor was i one of those teenagers. my problems are small in the face of theirs. and i am thankful for that.

but that does not mean my pain and my struggles aren’t valid.

that does not mean they don’t deserve a place on the shelf.

—a small disclaimer

first love is unlike anything else.

i still remember how the nerves felt,

how the butterflies flapped around

in my stomach.

the ones you love after

your first will never

feel as exotic or new.

first love is an exploration.

i saw the entire world

in your eyes.

i can’t tell you

how many times

somebody has looked

at my open wounds

and told me

that i’m not really

bleeding

—age doesn’t mean shit

i wrote my first poem about you, but it wasn’t sad. no, this was before. before we came to a screeching halt, before you wrapped your hand around my jugular, yanked, and watched the blood drip down your wrist.

i wish i could find it, but i lost those pages long ago. i remember that i said it didn’t matter how long we lasted, that i was just glad to be able to call you mine for at least a while.

how silly of me to think it wouldn’t hurt when you left. how foolish of me to not foresee a devastating end.

scene:

we are walking down your street. i catch you staring.

“what are you staring at?” i ask.

“just you,” you respond.

“wha—why?”

“because,” is all you say.

“why?” i ask again. nervous, for some reason.

“because!”

“why, though?”

“because, you’re fucking beautiful!”

end scene

i remember this distinctly. more than our first kiss or the first time you said you loved me.

i remember it because years later, it is horrifying to me.

because later that night, when i went to talk to self-love, i saw you looking back at me when i should have seen myself.

relationship status: it’s complicated.

i’m not seeing what i should be seeing when i think of you.

there’s somebody else here.

and there shouldn’t be, but it feels so good.

is this wrong? is this wrong to be thinking about somebody else when i should be thinking of you (myself)?

i only feel beautiful when they tell me so.

tell me, is that really a crime?

the first boy

i fell in love with

was a writer.

he wrote me love letters,

won me over with metaphors

and mind paint.

i was young

and more in love

with the idea of love

than anything,

but he was the first one

to light a fire in me.

he was also the first one

to put it out.

the first time we kissed

was on saint patrick’s day;

i wanted to think that made

us lucky.

—i was wrong

she was the one you liked

first.

but she was unattainable,

so you picked me.

and i knew this,

but i loved you,

so i buried it in the back of my mind

and didn’t think about the fact

that i may have been a second choice.

i didn’t think about it

until all of a sudden

she was attainable,

and despite having me,

you picked her.

you fucking picked

her.

—i guess i should’ve seen it coming

you said i want you to stick this out like this was a blip in the system and not you confessing your love for another girl,

like this wasn’t one of the worst possible things you could do to somebody,

like this was simple, like it was fucking easy, like it was as solvable as algebra,

like saying i think i’m falling in love with her to your damn girlfriend was something you could just take back.

but you didn’t take it back, you said i want you to stick this out, you said i want you to stay, you said please don’t go yet,

and somewhere deep inside of me, the woman i am now stood up and told me to say no.

no i will not stay,

no i will not wait around with bated breath while you figure out which one of us you like more,

no i will not stick this out, because you saw this coming and did nothing to stop it.

i’m leaving.

i’m fucking leaving.

it’s going to tear me apart

but dammit,

i’m leaving.

that first night, i tried so hard to be positive, changed my instagram bio to “single pringle!”; laughed with my mom about the things you did that annoyed me; talked to my best friends and told them i was fine, that i knew all good things couldn’t last, that it was okay, we were going to different high schools anyway, it was gonna go down at some point; pushed the pain down as far as it could go, but eventually, it broke through anyway, because she was texting me, telling me how upset she was about it, how she never wanted this to happen—i just wanted to be his friend—because i was slowly putting it all together—he liked her first he fucking liked her first—because you were texting me, apologizing and apologizing and begging for another chance—

and it was like, all the laughter and the jokes didn’t matter.

at the end of the day, everything was still broken.

the problem with

being in love

when you’re 13

is that you have no clue

how to love somebody

without placing your entire

self-worth on them.

if they love you,

you love you.

if they leave,

your self-esteem

goes with them.

—i learned the hard way

you gave me

sonnets and soliloquies:

an entire ocean of words.

when you left,

you did not take them

with you.

tell me,

what else was i supposed to do?

—the beginning

poetry became my crutch.

with tears all wet and silver on my cheeks, i would devour poetry like it was a fuel source. the words would run over my tongue like heartbreak’s own chicken noodle soup.

i still can’t tell if i started writing so much because i needed to have somewhere to place everything, or if i only did it to have a part of you to hold on to.

that’s the strangest thing about first loves: no matter how much you make something your own, there are parts of it that will always have their fingerprint.

i’m not sure if i should blame you

for the parts of the breaking

that you could not control:

like how i kissed three boys

i didn’t give a single shit about

because i had let myself be defined

by who i had or didn’t have at my side,

and then left them spinning because

they didn’t feel like you

(but then again, no one did/could/would),

or how i kept talking to her

because she would give me updates

on how you were doing and i just wanted to

hear that maybe you fucking missed me,

even just a little, and i never did

but i kept on hoping that one day

you might admit it,

or how i started to hate how i looked

in the mirror, and it was hard to eat

but i didn’t work to fix that

as hard as i should have. but these were

things that happened after, not during,

and i could have stopped, couldn’t i?

yes, i could have, and i know part of me

wanted to, but when you’re starving for the feeling

that has been so brutally sucked out of your body

you become desperate to find a new source.

but it wasn’t coming from anybody, not them, not you,

certainly not myself, and how dare you make me into this,

how dare you just walk away with barely a speck of rubble

on your clothes, how dare you make me feel ashamed of my own skin, how dare you leave me, how dare you break me, how dare—

i can’t blame you for this part.

i know i can’t; it isn’t the right

thing to do.

but they say to trace a problem

back to its source.

and so i follow the red string back to the point

on the map, and it’s your face. so what does it mean?

maybe it means you loved me too little.

maybe it means i just loved you too much.

—the breaking

i keep wishing

and wishing

and wishing,

but i am the only

one of us stuck on 11:11.

time has moved on.

—and so have you

you were my first.

first love,

first kiss,

first hand to hold,

first love letter,

first “i love you.”

and i spent a long time

trying not to forget that,

since you were also

the first person to

completely

fucking

destroy me.

—i couldn’t tell which one was more important

does nostalgia

sink its teeth into you

like it does to me?

do you ever think of the girl

you loved before anyone?

do you ever think of how

you loved her?

how you left her?

how you broke her?

i hate.

i look in the mirror

and pinch the skin

on my stomach and my thighs.

she is prettier than me,

i think,

and she has curvier hips

and is both big and small

in all the right places.

i do not think

i am any

of those things.

so i hate.

not her,

because it wasn’t her fault.

but it wasn’t my fault either,

and yet,

here i am.

—the dark times

i cry.

i cry in the shower

and in my bed

and sometimes just randomly.

she is stronger than me,

i think,

and she knows more

about everything

and has so much to say.

i do not think

i am any

of those things.

so i cry.

not about her,

because she does not want my tears.

but you don’t want them either,

and yet,

here i am.

—the dark times ii

i love.

i love you every second

of every day

of every week you’re gone.

she is not permanent like me,

i think,

and she will not stick around.

you will realize she isn’t meant

for you and you will come back.

i think

i am all

of those things.

so i love.

not myself,

because i haven’t figured out how to.

but you haven’t figured out how to love me either,

and yet,

here i am.

—the dark times iii

the months in between were bleak.

i let a boy fall in love with me that i was never going to love back, because i missed the feeling of being wanted—

i did not know how to want myself.

i spent a lot of time reading poetry that begged for a boy to come to the rescue—

i did not know how dangerous that was,

and eventually i let you in again when you came crawling back—

i did not know how to let you go.

things that remind me of you #1

cigarette smoke / bleach cleaner / love letters / shark teeth / turtle necklaces / the beach / old dogs / lakes / confessionals / four-leaf clovers / sweaty palms / rushed kisses / tears /

/ tears /

/ sad poems /

/ confused poems /

/ continuous pain /

/ holding on to something that is probably dead /

Shades of Lovers

1

ruby red

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