I used to write about you so intensely, so determined that everything I said would somehow reach you and the ink would spill in your veins.  I used to write about you with a pinched heart, an ache that never left my bones, and a crystal tear in each eye that never wanted to stroll down my cheeks. I used to write about you, hoping that the missing-you feeling would pass and that the visions in my head would be diminished if I just ******* wrote down how I felt.

We were partners in crime. We were our own Bonny & Clyde, but you decided to get away with Billie Jean. My hair is falling out and the tears are streaming like blood down a pure river. I flushed my rosary, the one you gave to me, down the toilet and now the toilet’s clogged and I don’t want to get out of bed to fix it. I don’t even want to call your brother plumber, but maybe I will and maybe I’ll ***** him and leave lipstick kisses on the places I would leave them on you.

I feel so sick when I get in this cycle, when I start writing about you again and when everything just spills out of the glass. But I still write about you because the therapist tells me to.

As he kissed her forehead,
He heard her thoughts yell out
"I love you."
And even though he said otherwise,
His thoughts yelled out the same.

You drew blood and I called it paint
As though these veins hold art
And you were creating a masterpiece
To be hung up in my heart