i keep saying that this will be the last thing.

the last metaphor, the last analogy.

i keep telling myself that this will be the last poem,

but you’re so fucking easy to write about because it’s so fucking easy for you to get under my skin. you never even left.

and you don’t even do anything, that’s the funny part.

you don’t do a damn thing, because you don’t care anymore.

you’re gone. disappeared. you do not give a shit about me,

but the songs still do. the poetry still does.

how easy it must have been for you to leave such a permanent mark on me. i’m as impressionable as clay. slam your hand into me and walk away laughing because the mark will still be here months after you’ve washed your hands of me.

i wake up every morning and i say, “today is the last day.”

but my body, still molded by your fingertips, says, “no. not yet.”

this is an angry poem.

it is bloody and it is wounded and it is angry.

angry at what?

i’m not even sure anymore.

some days i think i’m still angry at you but really, i think i’m just angry at myself for not being able to get you out of my skin.

—i just can’t get rid of you

despite all the lies

you told me

and the half-truths

that danced past

your lips

despite all the words

tied to me that dragged

me

d

o

w

n

i was too blind

to see that you were

only

bre a k

ing

m e

because that is

love

in its cruelest form

—br e ak

you fed me apologies

out of your hand

like i was your fucking dog.

—and i ate them right up

i don’t think you know

just how badly

i wanted us

to make it.

—i would have bet my life on it

i want to apologize

to all the would-be lovers

i pushed away without

giving them a chance,

to all the friends

i didn’t listen to

because they didn’t “understand.”

to everyone

who saw this coming

so much earlier

than i did.

sometimes you can be toxic too. sometimes you do something to hurt them just because you feel like they deserve it. sometimes you turn into the person who’s poisoned you the most. sometimes you let it happen. sometimes you think it’s the only way to live anymore. that it’s easier to be cruel. that it’s simpler to be fake. that the right way to live is by ensuring other people don’t. that breaking hearts is the only way to keep yours safe. but let me tell you something: it is not the only way. you are a victim of circumstance. you begin to become toxic when it is the only thing you know anymore. when it is what holds you at night and kisses you good morning. please fight that poison. i beg you to fight it. it is not the only way to live. the people who are the most toxic, who hurt people and look the other way, who jump from heart to heart and leave nothing but destruction in their path, who think it’s all fun and games—they are less alive than anyone. they are the ones not living, who have hearts that beat but don’t bleed. do not be fooled by their stone-cold exterior. they may seem better off, but they are dead. on the inside, they are dead.