i tried so hard not to love him. i tried so fucking hard. you were

whispering her sweet nothings the whole time, and yet i was

wrong. i was cruel. i was leaving you alone.

maybe i did hurt you, but not in the way i thought i did. it was the

loss of control, and the loss of me with it that hurt you.

it was the realization that i wasn’t yours anymore.

and i’ll be damned if i ever feel guilty about that again.

cold

i don’t know how

to let things go,

so i hold on to grudges

like summer holds

on to september;

i refuse to let you

become something cold.

i know healing should feel

warm and healthy,

not like this;

this feels like i’m letting

something die in my own hands,

this feels like numbness,

like you are

supposed to stay here,

in the back of my mind,

forever.

maybe that is what healing

means for us—

never quite understanding

what this is,

and just becoming okay with

not knowing.

with letting this question sit

on my chest, unanswered,

until one day

i change it from

did he even love me?

to

i don’t know if he even loved me

and the fact that it’s an unknown

doesn’t keep me up at night anymore.

i’ve resigned myself

to the fact that i will never

be able to get past you

in the way i got over you:

quickly, messily, desperately,

like i would die if i didn’t.

i have realized that

letting you go may not

be what’s in store for me.

rather, i will hold on tightly,

trying to breathe some type

of life into this, hoping that one day,

it will spit out answers to my questions,

pressing warmth

into something dead to avoid

accepting that maybe

i don’t know if he even loved me

was the answer,

the whole point,

all along.

perhaps one day

i will look into the mirror

and not see an empty shell

of somebody who used

to love too much.

but until then,

i stare at my chipped reflection

and wonder when the pieces

will finally stop falling,

or if maybe

i’m slowly shattering

because i find it so easy

to give parts of myself

away.

basically, i did this to myself

here is a cruel piece of irony:

i have spent years trying to press the meaning

out of you.

years trying to flatten you into a clump of memories that no longer

keep me up at night.

years trying to take away your significance.

but in my desire to turn you into nothing

i have made you immortal.

our story sits on bookshelves.

you can find it on google.

i wanted everybody to see you.

i wanted everybody to know.

and for what?

so they knew not to put you

on some pedestal like i did?

foolish me.

my poetry has built you

the highest pedestal

of all.