I tried to
write
a poem about you
but instead
I scribbled a
big, orange-ink blob
and I figured
that made
just as much sense.

most days i can't handle how you react
to the truth which has unfortunately been the cause
of us having no relationship.
because you live a life that's a big fat lie and i refuse
to be a part of it anymore which is sad because
it has consumed you.

some days i get bored though and i just spew
everything that's true into one text message,
(because that's your primary form of communication now),
and hit "send" without even thinking
just to stir things up a bit.

it's not strength, it's pure boredom.
until you respond with flat-out hatred,
blaming me for everything
to remind me of how weak
i truly am and that
that boredom can be a very dangerous thing indeed.

it's not my job to "let you" mother me
that's your ******* job, regardless of what i
feel or act or think or say
to you
you're supposed to fight for me
you're supposed to do anything for me
i'm going to push you away because of how much you've hurt me
and you're supposed to pull me back as hard and as meaningful
and as sincere as you possibly can.
because that's what good mothers do.

you're not supposed to say it's my fault
you're not supposed to make me feel this way
*******
*******
*******
*******

i wonder what you'd look like
if you were stripped of your skin,
would your bones be as perfect
as your shell?

or would they be heavy with scars
etched into you slowly, filled with ink,
and laced with names you
wish you could forget?