Caitlin Collinsworth

Don’t look at him or his pretty words. Anyone can call you beautiful, but few can feel it underneath. It’s just a word to fill a void, as though it’s any description of who you are.

And maybe one day I’ll be reading a book at the Laundromat. Some movement will catch my eye and then I’ll see you taking your clothes out of the dryer.

I was at a bar and it was so dimly lit. I wanted to laugh and tell you the menu must be terrible. They wanted it to be hidden, must be way we ere in the dark.

I could see my exhales in the air. My roommate and I were told not to walk under the tracks at night.

The man behind me asked if I had ever tried a kale muffin. I replied no and he hadn’t either. He offered to split one as he sat down next to me on a bench.

There is a skylight over my bed where I can gaze and see planes fly past at night. The blinking of lights where I imagine lovers being taken home. Their red and tired eyes sore for something familiar.

I slept on the couch last night. I felt like a visitor to my own life. The night before a stranger held me. Tightly I could feel his heartbeat, I dragged my fingers across his chest.

You know never know at the beginning who will leave an impression on you. The shortest stint of an almost lover can weigh heavier than the one I could’ve seen for longer.

I’ve read countless of hopeful stories about people finding their other halves. I never saw relationships that way.

It’s a peculiar feeling when your walls are painted white once again and you see how many boxes seven years can fit into.

I told her I felt hollow on the inside. That if I were to tap my sternum all it would do is echo.

I believe in songs on the radio. In shuffle. In chance giving you all the signs you could possibly want.