this is a poem about love and how we are all just casualties in someone else's war

i can't remember his special dates, but he wrote albums about my hands.
i remember the last day of 5th grade (june 6th),
but he told me his birthday three times - i think its july 25th.
he got lost in the gunfire inside of my head but he stayed because he thought they were fireworks, but they were other boys and they were sad, sad thoughts and anxious hands.
his blood was everywhere, he got shot in the heart,
maybe it was a knife wound, i don't remember.

two.
he was a downhill slope, i rolled right after him - i used to think he pulled me down, but i jumped voluntarily.
i made it out with bumps and scrapes and a very nasty vocal chord bruise.
i let go of his ankles.
i never cried, but he asked to get coffee on sunday.

number one had very blue eyes,
the perfect color.
when people ask me my favorite color i still say sky blue; that's you.
my sky blue boy with melancholy toes and very sharp teeth.
you started this.
on april 3rd i had a panic attack when i saw you.
you used my own hand to crush my heart, curled your fingers around mine and pressed hard until black nails drew blood.
i told you it hurt, you said you loved me.

november fourth and you were my one.
it was a monday afternoon, you were a monday afternoon and i traded you for nighttime boys.
you just wanted to care about me.
you folded your socks and your eyes were so wide and you always touched my forehead.
i was scared of you and left your heart on that bridge, in the tree.
i don't think i broke you, but you definitely got dusty and dirty in the aftermath of the nuclear bomb my parents set off in my home.

last. (lately, lasting, longing, lusting? loving, lastly)
i'm trying not to write about you so much.
i know you like to sleep with your socks off,
your favorite underwear is white.
you kept promising you loved me, but i know you really loved her. you always came back though, you always came back. (you always come back?)
i have physical scars from you.
you make me so happy, you make me so sad, you make me so happy.
God told you not to love me.
maybe you were some kind of holy war.
you left way too many dead,
and by way too many i just mean me.