you were my entire world,
and while i accept blame and responsibility
for making a universe out of a mere mortal,
that doesn’t change the fact that
the sky suddenly seemed empty
when you left.
the stars shone a bit dimmer,
the light in my eyes went out.

eventually other people came along.
they carried torches and used their flames
to rekindle the ones i had lost.
the stars started glowing again.

i learned how to remove you.
dug you out from under my skin,
erased you from my brain.
you became mere mortal, once more.

and i was okay.
and then you came along again,
telling me you were sorry.

i don’t want an “i’m sorry”
i want you to tell me you miss me
i want you to tell me there’s a hole shaped like me
somewhere in your heart,
and you want me to fill it again.

i want you to tell me i changed you,
that you also can’t listen to
the songs that we used to sing to each other,
have memorized by heart,
because that would mean having to acknowledge me,
remember what we had,
and that would hurt too much.

i want you to ask if you cross my mind,
because i cross yours all the time, and it’s as if
a piece of me has been etched into your brain and ears and eyes,
so that no matter what,
there are certain things that you can’t
watch or read or hear
without thinking of me.

tell me you love me.

because no matter how far away i try to throw you,
you always seem to find your way back to me,
back under my skin,
back into my heart.

i haven’t stopped loving you.
i don’t know how to.

but i want to.
so save your i’m sorry’s,
save your nostalgia and frustration and sadness
for the next girl whose heart you break.

there’s no room for it here.

you asked me to describe you,
and i found myself at a loss
for words
(which doesn’t happen very often;
words usually pour out of me
like water from a fountain).
you mean the entire ******* world to me,
how do i put that into words?
how do i put you into words?

you're the literal light of my life:
you’re a ray of sunshine,
a respite from the constant thunder and rain
that seems to follow me around no matter where i go.
you pour constant love and warmth into me,
so much so that
even on the gloomiest of days,
i feel happy and okay.

you’re my inspiration;
i look up to you in every possible way.
you make me want to be a better person,
show me what that could be like.

you are soft and gentle and kind.
you’re the feeling of coming home
of watching a movie under the blankets
with a cup of hot cocoa
of finding something that you thought you had lost,
and the relief because
you couldn’t imagine living
without something so amazing.
you’re the feeling of safety and security,
of knowing that everything’s going to be okay,
of opening a new book and becoming immersed
in an entirely new world, something you never could’ve dreamt up.

you’re the feeling i get when my favorite song comes on,
shouting the lyrics and knowing i’m off-key but not caring.

you remind me what it’s like to feel alive,
what it’s like to feel human
(and how can i put that into words?)

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that if the phrase “adding insult to injury” had a feeling,
that would be it.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it sounds like “hands up, don’t shoot,” like “i can’t breathe,”
like blood hitting a pavement that seems as though it was built
to catch those droplets.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it tastes like skittles and arizona tea,
four years old but still carrying the fresh sting of a wound just opened.
i imagine that it tastes 
like history repeating itself,
like seeing your son or daughter recycled each week
on every news report, on every tv station.
each time it is a different body, 
but it is always the same hand pulling the trigger,
the same black blood being spilled,
the same cries left unheard;
we shout “black lives matter”
and yet, still,
they cut them too short.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it looks like a web of lies too thick to cut through — 
every strand another weapon that he did or did not have,
another order that he did or did not follow,
another sin that he did or did not commit;
the only black they care about
is the color of the ink they use
to draw your angel-headed boy
a set of horns.
i imagine that it looks like evidence hidden,
like sparknotes-type skim-throughs labeled “thorough investigations,”
like another unindicted officer walking freely atop the cries of those 
who charged into a battle they knew they would, but hoped they would not, lose.
a battle they have fought too many times before.
i imagine that it looks
like an empty chair at the dinner table,
like cold-blooded ****** disguised as justice
with the help of a blue hat and a badge.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but if you listen closely enough,
you can hear it
in every cautious goodbye she says to her children whenever they leave the house,
or in the silence that those goodbyes used to fill.

can you hear it?
you will have to push past the shouts
of the big bold letters that they want you to believe.

somewhere,
somewhere in there,
a black mother’s heart is crying.
it is a gentle, hushed cry 
that the world does not want to hear.

but the tears are still just as wet.

(a.m.)

from miles away i can see you erasing me.
you might not feel it, but i do.
i know you are.
it always goes this way.

from miles away i can see you erasing me,
and i want to shout at you, to tell you to stop,
but i have always been quiet in the moments when it would matter most to be loud.

i wish i could go long without love.

i will never ask for a second chance because you would then ask when you ever gave me a first one.
because you would break me down.
so erase me.

this is burning bridges still being built;
this is the familiar taste.
i wish i could go long without love. i wish it could have been different.

are you content watching the flames?

this is being sorry.
this is not knowing what to say.
i never know what to say.
i wish i could go long without love but i can't.

from miles away i can see you erasing me.
i am sorry that my desires never manifest themselves into something beautiful.

i wish i could
                    love.

i
        long.

from miles away i can see you erasing me,
so erase.
perhaps it will be better for the both of us.

(a.m.)

sometimes i think
that if, perhaps,
i could shrink myself down into something a bit more beautiful,
then maybe you would love me.

in the ugly, unafraid, truth-telling part of my mind,
the part i seldom dare to visit,
i know this is not true,
know that you could never love me,
not now.

i can make myself,
as much as i like,
into wood to be whittled,
but i cannot make you crave those carvings.

you can lead a horse to water,
or whatever it is that they say.

but i fear i will always be a well run dry in your eyes
(or perhaps one that never had water to begin with).

so i combat this fear in the only way i know how:
by turning away from it,
pretending it does not exist.

by shrinking.

and sometimes,
sometimes,
when you don't seem as far away,
i think that if, perhaps,
i could shrink myself down into something a bit more beautiful,
then maybe you would love me.

(a.m.)

I suppose I could plead innocent to this crime,
But that would be lying.
After all, I knew exactly what I was doing
Each and every time I took you apart,
Ripping your self-esteem and sense of security down
With every cruel word I threw at you,
Like a game of darts with your heart as the target.

You tell me that despite having broken up with me,
You can’t possibly forget me because all your demons have my voice.
I suppose you hoped that would spark remorse within me,
And serve as some sort of proof that there’s evidence of what I’ve done.
But darling, I don’t think you understand;
That was my intention all along:
To leave an imprint in your life.

I’ve always been enamored by graffiti on public property.
I suppose destroying you
Was my way of imitating that;
Leaving my mark on something that
Wasn’t mine to begin with, nor to end with.

If it’s any consolation,
I’m not proud of the person I’ve become.
But at this point I’m afraid
It’s too late to try to change.

this is an alphabet of all the people
who have dug holes in me,
and of all the people
who are still digging.

this is a gardening guide
for would-be lovers and pretty faces
who do not even realize
that they are carrying shovels.

this is a weather forecast written
from past experience,
a reminder that winter
is not kind on crops,
no matter how firmly you pack the dirt.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds planted.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds left to die.

A,
i suppose it is fitting that the first letter
is also the first person to show me what it is like
to have seedlings sprouting up from inside you,
the first person to show me just how deep you really have to dig
to make the sting last.
you never came back to water what you planted.

H,
i’d like to say to that i ripped out your roots with my own two hands;
i’d like to give myself some credit in all this.
you don’t look as lovely as you used to.
you say i’ve grown distant.
i’m sorry.

J,
you always feel like being on the verge of something big.
you feel like summer, like a deep purple,
a bath of darkness.
you are everywhere that plants do not grow well.
and i have always felt — and still do feel — 
that that is such a grave injustice.
still, though you cannot speak the word “devotion,”
i beckon for more seeds.

P,
my greatest heartbreak.
heartbreak, though, is but a flesh wound when seen from afar.
and so i thank god for the miles between us.
i can feign forgetfulness when you are far away.
after all, what is a shovel in your hands if those hands cannot reach me?

S,
you are but a bud waiting to bloom.
and yet again i find myself so very afraid of growth.

(a.m.)