that’s all i really want to be:

the face that appears in your mind

whenever you do something shitty.

if i could spare somebody else

from such pain,

that would be enough.

who am i kidding?

i say the poem isn’t about you

and then write about a hurricane.

i write about a slow-motion heartbreak,

the gradual cracking of glass before the inevitable shatter.

i say the poem isn’t about you

and then rehash the same moments,

play our greatest hits,

almost say your name.

i say the poem isn’t about you

but i don’t have any other story

to tell.

i say the poem isn’t about you

but i wouldn’t know how

to tell another story even if i had one.

i say the poem isn’t about you

but it is.

it always

is.

SOMETHING HONEST:

every poem i write about you

makes the pain just a little bit more

of a holdable thing,

and i keep hoping

i will be able

to mold it into

whatever i want.

perhaps one day

i could even make us seem

beautiful.

it was all just wrong

i still ask myself:

what if we met now?

would it be different?

would the ending still be the same?

what if

maybe you really were

the right person

at the wrong time?

but i don’t think you were.

when it’s the right person

at the wrong time,

it’s the world that tears you apart.

it’s not this.

on the days my ankle still pulses

missing you has changed.

it no longer feels like an anchor

chained around my feet.

nowadays missing you

feels like a fist wrapped around

my throat, sometimes squeezing,

always hovering.

never disappearing.

nowadays missing you

feels less painful

but more permanent,

like an old sprained ankle

that still aches sometimes.

even though it’s been

months since i fell.

do you long for me, still?

do i feel like a scar

that didn’t heal just right,

like something you can’t

forget about yet?

does our end sit uneasily

with you, too?

or is it just the romantic in me

clenching my airway shut

when i look at eyes that

are the same color as yours?

is it just my nostalgia

tugging me down

whenever i hear that song?

missing you has changed.

it no longer feels like an anchor.

it no longer feels out of place.

it just feels ordinary. everyday.

routine.

it feels just like you used to.

don’t ask me if i regret you.

ask me if i would do it differently.

ask me if i would have left sooner.

ask me if i have forgiven you.

but don’t ask me if i regret you.

i don’t think i could even give you an answer.

frequently asked questions

why do you still write about it? doesn’t that make it worse?

the answer is simple. it’s always been simple.

he broke my heart, and i ignored it for a year. i let the wounds sit