I found myself sitting among
Fragments of broken promises
Looming around me like
Shards of glass-

I picked them up as best I could:
A slice to the wrist, and a second,
And a few more.
But I never got them all.

I thought leaving you
Was the last of my messes,
But it seems to have
Broken down my walls
And shattered all my mirrors.

It has been months, I know I'm over you-
But at night,
I can still feel your hand in mine,
And I can still feel my heart,
Beating in time with yours.

No one ever told me
That leaving wouldn't break the one I left ,
But me too.

And they didn't ever tell me,
That leaving can occur in seconds,
But last for years.

I've learned that no one told me these secrets,
Because they're secrets no one wants to have-

It's something you have to learn for yourself,
And silence underneath years of experience,
You have to bury it-
Forget where you marked X
And leave it a secret unfound.

  *I just wish I could find my shovel

You passed by me last night,
When you walked through the door
I felt your hand touch my back-
For a second my breath hitched,
But I didn't feel like crying.
I didn't cry;
I didn't flinch.
It took me fifteen months
But I think it's safe to say:
My demons no longer look like you.

Today at church
we played a name game
and somewhere down the line
I was sitting next to you
For the first time in ten months
wondering if my name
still tastes like honey to you
Or if you even remember
What it felt like
When it rolled off your tongue
Because I still taste yours
Vibrating on my lips
And I still feel
your vanilla kisses
across my chest

You said I was the first
And only girl you ever loved.
To show me,
You gave me
a little black ball of fuzz,
A tiny life,
with eyes as green as yours,
And with that cat,
You sparked my newest love.
When I doubted,
You didn't bother to ask why,
You just ran.
I came back,
Hoping you were there.
Ironically enough,
You had left me for a girl
Who already loved cats...

But she will never love you.

dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

I turned you into my favorite rhymes-
Developed your smile into first lines,
Channeled your eyes in my deepest fears.

I made you stay-
Burned your name into stanzas,
Carved your body onto paper.

I loved everything about you-
Idolized your tragic flaws,
Transformed your harsh words into art.

I turned you into poetry,
But I never made you love me.

dating a poet is fun,
and you'll learn things about yourself,
that you never knew.
but when you leave her,
you'll be the one who's broken.

you see,
she'll break you down
into bits and pieces-

she'll carve rhymes
into your rib cage
and
she'll make your kisses
into pentameters.

your voice becomes her rhythm,
and each color in your eye
forms a stanza.

you become pieced together
and poorly stitched,
because she's taken out
the very best parts of you
and the very worst.

she's taken you,
and cut out her favorite parts,
and she'll promise to put you back together,
but the funny thing is,
she never learned to sew.