It's 10:55 on December 27th and I swear that I
will be able to forget the constellation freckles on your arms
and how you shoved the "passive aggressive" note you asked me to write like I used to
into your bag and shrugged it off when I asked like--
like you don't know your own charm.
It told you to "stop messing around on Facebook and write your **** :)",
which may have been the last thing I would ever tell you to do--
just like you forgot how much you missed my notes and reminders and all of it
(except for me).
So, if you can forget about every Sunday night
and the way your fingers danced on my ankle and my thigh,
then I can pretend I never loved you in a way I swore no one else could
because, to this day, I'm upset that you seem to think that there was anyone else besides you
in this endless universe that ever would
I will forget the way you said my name when you were tired, frustrated, and alone,
and the way you asked me to get wine drunk,
because the 150 reasons that I was in love with you
are the same reasons that I need to let you go, too.
I can’t wait for the day when I don’t think of you,
when I feel acid rain pouring on my face like fiery fingers and tears,
or when curls bounce around my face like the phone cord in the first house I remember,
or drink cinnamon orange tea and write forty pages of gender theory.
I can’t wait for the day when I don't remember you won’t message back,
and I’m left on read like a newspaper reporter without a following,
or when brandy and coffee doesn’t smell like your breath or how I thought you’d taste.
Because fiery tears are acid rain on my cheeks
that won’t burn the scattered pieces of you away.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
When they ask me why I stayed so long
I explain that because of you
I never ran out of things to write about.
I wonder whether all along
I was looking for a lover
or a writing prompt.
Texting someone under
Hoping no one will
And once it’s said
It doesn’t mean as much
there’s something about the way i’ve hit my
head on the awards on the wall
that makes me love
it’s the specks of maroon in the evergreen carpet
and the way we
used to sit on the table too
i love the way that the wheels
of the chairs catch on the computer cords
and the coffee stains
on the floor.
it’s the whiteboard we built
and the movie
of the ink smeared on
our fingers and our
that makes me wish i could never forget this
and also that i entirely,
Tonight is cold coffee
sitting in a paper-and-ink colored mug
on the corner of the desk;
it’s propping old tennis-shoes feet
on your swivel chair
and sitting so close i can see the holes in
the collar of your shirt
and nothing less.
Tonight is trying to pretend that
your arm on my shoulders
doesn’t matter to me;
it’s telling myself that we’re
and that everything beyond that
is so unclear;
it’s swallowing the lump in my throat
and inhaling your
Tonight is tiled floors and silent hallways
broken by eighties pop music
and dropping things on the floor,
because I worked ten hours today and
“i just can’t”
it’s thin mints
crushed into chocolate and stardust pieces
on the floor of the office that I should’ve vacuumed
Friday, or Monday,
or probably the week before.
And tomorrow is going to be two meetings
and too many shuffling agendas
and everything else that I hate;
it’ll be khaki-colored pants
and a glimpse of you through
if i’m lucky,
because the wet blanket
that will settle in tomorrow
and make itself at home
But for tonight,
it’s almost ten thirty,
and I’m sure that I could
walk faster to my car
and kick less concrete pebbles
along the way,
but then I would’ve missed
that you’ll see me