sometimes i fall asleep thinking about you

trigger warning:

mentions of emotional and physical abuse, blood, guns, and death.

please take care.

HOW TO BE A POET:

1. rub salt in your wounds

2. watch them bleed

3. call it art

disclaimer

i find poetry

in the most broken things:

crash debris

and shattered glass,

cracked walls

and peeling paint.

i pick letters out

of the wreckage,

try to salvage

something from

all the ruin.

so i make it poetry

and i make it

messy and disjunct

and not always pretty—

not always good—

but always,

always,

me.

always,

always,

every

fucking

piece

of

me.

an introduction

dear reader,

a few years ago, i met a boy who lit me on fire.

he reminded me of how warm love could be.

so i closed my eyes to the warning signs

and ignored the damage he inflicted.

i forgot all the lessons i’d already learned.

i stopped knowing better.

dear reader,

a few years ago i met a boy who lit me on fire,

stoked the flames and watched me burn.

i have spent the last four years nursing those wounds.

in many ways, he marked a new beginning for me.

as he destroyed my old self, a new one rose from the ashes,

one that was smarter, braver, and stronger.

smart enough to realize i needed to leave,

brave enough to actually do it,

and strong enough to stay away once i did.

he was the fire to my phoenix.

even still, i’ve written about our story countless times.

love can be one of the hardest things to shake.

but i have been working towards

saying, “i am putting this down, now,”

and truly meaning it.

i’ve been waiting for the day

where i could say it was the last time.

i’ve been waiting for the final poem.

dear reader,

a few years ago i met a boy who lit me on fire

and it took so long to sort through the aftermath.

but now i am healed.

now i am at peace.

now i am ready to finally, finally

let him go.

you were in my dreams last night.

you told me, “i read everything you write.”

and so i said, “i’m sorry. it’s not for you to read.

i didn’t write these things to get back at you.

i wrote them for myself.”

i woke up with a feeling of closure that evaporated

once i opened my eyes but,

in case you do read everything i write—

i’m sorry. this is not for you to read.

i didn’t write these things to get back at you.

i wrote them for myself.

stargazing

i fell in love with you

under the stars.

we’d find the big dipper

while we told each other

about the missing pieces

in our hearts.

you would point at orion’s belt

amid telling me about the first time