A eulogy to the poems I have ripped up.

I'm sorry it has to be this way,

Me ripping out pieces of my life until there's no notebook left for you to hold onto.

I know I said you cause me pain

But it's a good kind of pain,

The kind of pain I get when I destroy my own writing.

I'm not throwing this page away, I'm not done with it yet.

I don't ever want to rip you out of my life.

You are a poem that I'll always be writing,

my love.