He punched the wall
and chased after me
out the door
down the stairs
outside
into the parking lot.
Yelled in agony
that I don't
appreciate
those who love me.

Hood up.
Head down.
Headphones in.
Herald: The harrowing
hauncho and his henchman.

You told me not to tell anyone
what happened.
Said it would hurt him too much.
What about me?

Did my feelings matter less?
Why must I be a prisoner,
silent to his crime.

Yes it was crime,
and I, not wanting to feel
victimized
kept silent,
but asked for your advice.
You told me what I wanted to hear,
which was to say nothing.

I wonder how you feel
about your words now.
I wonder if they haunt you
in your sleep.
I wonder wonder
about you and
and all your feelings
instead of wondering
about me.

How am I doing?

I wish you would ask.

I missed him
so I slept with
my best friend.
I cried everytime
he stroked
my cheek.
He always loved me.

From those who only think
one
thought
at
a
time:

Clip her wings; don't let her fly!

Keep to the solo paradigm.

He said he loved me.
I said I didn't.
We never spoke again.
I'm pretty sure
he still hates me.

It bothers me,
but I have nothing more to say.

Maybe the impulse
to remark is not poetry —
Maybe it is
sitting perfectly still
in a leather chair
to look down
and see hands
not there.