04/05/2024 2

I'm still writing poetry and I still won't show it to you, but this time you, babe, my love, I saw you at my poetry reading I looked right at you and thought again about the stain on your jacket sleeve and how proud I was that day you let me wear it and how I thought I'd never feel cold again and it was you but your hair was straightened and not pulled back like when she straightened your hair and I kept thinking about how it must've felt nice to have her hands moving through your hair and how could I blame you for enjoying the sensation so much more than one person could do it for you, she might as well touch your dick for you too. I'm sorry I'm sorry no I mean it the same way you did when you said it over and over and over again every time I spent the day waiting for you and I forgave you every time because I still believed we were quilted from the same cloth and stars from the same constellation and cliches from the same hopeful teenager's diary. So I kept reading my poems to you and melted at the sight of your hands so empty without mine clutched in it cover my scar with your thumb so I can be pure and beautiful again let me be authentic again and I can stop pretending I know how to sit through a talk without zoning out without feeling scared that everything I see means my own inadequacy that the ghosts are closing in on me this room getting smaller and me always getting bigger. But you look great I could write poetry about your smile, I've written poetry about your smile, I think the crescent moon was modeled after your smile, and I write a lot of poems but it was you I loved not the poems like some egoistical English major. I wonder if that's how you see me now. And you were there with another girl which is how I knew it wasn't you. I won't be spiteful because you were right I didn't have a reason not to trust you, I just had a reason not to like you because you didn't want me to feel loved enough or you couldn't make me feel loved enough. They are talking and you and you are here and they say we should condense our poetry and mince our words but my emotions are overflowing like those fountains in your room. The turtles! If we had bought one would we have stayed or would I be single mothering it? And you'd be scared to ask about him. And please how is Misty? Please how is she? This anger is so heavy to carry and i know how it hurt you. Love is a limb I wish I could amputate. I walk around with a model of your heart in your pocket but you didn't realize I left you with my full one and put the model back in my chest to beat hollowly. I think it's safer with you anyway.