It never made a difference what I did or didn’t say to you.
You didn’t listen to me either way.
I could have told you the truth all along and maybe
then it would have made a difference. But I’m too lazy,
and I’m too tired, and it’s about time I gave up for once.
You gave up on me straight away and I thought I could pull you back up.
I guess I’m not always right.
I guess I’m only trapped in what boundaries you give me.

You make me so angry, but its worthless pounding on the door of a sound-proof room. I did anyway, and it only made my knuckles raw.
You hurt me. Does that mean anything to you?

      I found myself screaming.
      I found myself losing it.
      I found myself in the middle of nowhere, with no one, and nothing to say,
      wordlessly livid.
      Every thought inside if me no longer made sense.
      It felt like I’d lost control of my own life,
      all because I lost control of you.

      I was simply a flea on a tick on a dog on a hill on an island in the ocean of the world, which is barely a speck in the universe.
      I was a moment that no one heard—especially not you—
      a tree that fell silently in an empty forest,
      a lie that was told to a dreaming deaf mute,
      a ransom held for 12:03 P.M. that no one can pay, that no one even understands.
      I was a thought removed from a frontal lobe
      (“Pass the scalpel,” whispered remorsefully from behind a doctor’s mask).
      I was trapped in a memory you’d forgotten,
      and it was all I can do not to be completely erased.

Remember me! I wanted to shout, for waiting was no longer hoping. In my own sharp memory, I was surrounded by ice. It was fierce, yet completely withdrawn into the open window of your soul. All I could see was debris and packed boxes, stacked upon each other in the clotted, fatal shape of a skyscraper. The darkness of your fond shape wrapped me within myself, when I thought I was wrapped into you. You led me down a path that you knew I would be lost on, and you left me there without a word.

       I’m still stuck in this desolate world that we created,
       and as soon as you think of me, as soon as you return, I will greet you:
       “Welcome to every second in despair, every moment lost, every
       minute growing angrier; welcome to the storm is coming, to running
       from the monsters that aren’t even there, to burning fevers; welcome
       to dead but alive, to quivering and empty, to uncomfortably full,” I
       will say.

“Welcome to loneliness.”

let them slip,
                                       drip,
                                                           ­     fall...
as if part of a melting popsicle that drops to the cement
and leaves my face strewn with salty sadness.
I drew elaborate stories in her sandbox,
I told her the secret to being an adult as a child.

there was a tarantula in Martin's shoe
when you left,
                        not your fault for not seeing,
         your eyes were too shamefully stuck on the floor.

I've stopped thinking that moment is everything;
there are so many more:

His hand in mine, comforting and sweet
but just as exciting as when our legs touched,
painting my balance beam in swirling colors,
playing dress up in my mother's wedding gown,
almost breaking my tail bone in hysterical laughter,
singing in front of hundreds with no butterflies--
                               (not even moths!)
Tasting raspberries after a month of just cantaloupe,
knowing that you'll miss me as much as I miss you.

Everyone loses someone who they never want to leave,
but I've learned to
                                        
                                               let you  go.
                                                        ­        *every single one of you.

I stopped feeling anything almost a week ago,
you said that was normal for someone like me who always bites her nails
who doesn't like to shut up when people tell her to,
but I feel like you were just trying to make me feel something,
or maybe just feel better.
I still bite my nails so nothing's changed.

you eat equations as quick as you eat watermelon
and spit out the answers like seeds into neat rows and shapes,
trying to impress me because you think you can,
but I'm watching your sister and she's picking her nose
and she still looks like an angel.
you're trying too hard to get me to love you,
that's not how it works.

when I touch you I can hear your breathing;
it's disgusting.
(hold something in for once,
your thoughts, your breath, your laughter, your answers)
and when I woke up yesterday, you were silent.
I danced a little bit, until I thought you would wake up soon.
I wanted you to try and excuse your actions.

but you didn't wake up until noon and by then I was thirsty
and I was too gentle.
you told me that you felt something last night,
felt like I still loved you underneath my sarcastic skin
and you tried to prove it by touching me.
you only proved that you're gloriously stupid.

I’ve been sitting here for weeks,
and this is the first time you’ve noticed me?
Do you think I like being under this teacup?
I’m terrified; it’s dark and cold.

You’re out at your party,
and all I can think about is my wife,
all alone on the web back home just waiting for something, anything, to fly by.
It’s all a joke to you though, you sick man.
And would you believe that I climbed into a man’s suit,
got on a plane, flew all the way from Europe,
and lived with Johnny Depp for a while?
No, no you wouldn’t—
you work at NASA,
you drive a corvette,
you are dating the Aphrodite of your age
and it’s all not enough.

So let me tell you about me:
I’m not like you or him or anyone else here.
I don’t own shiny medals or have my own talk show,
I’m just looking for a chip in a cup,
some little imperfection that will set me free.

I’ve been thinking how I like
smooth jazz
poptarts
gushers
wheat thins.
I have hundreds of kids I’ve never met,
and a home in your bedroom window.

But none of that matters anymore
because I’m trapped under this ridiculous cup
and it’s dark, and I’m cold.
I’m beginning to think I should just give up.

Regretting the juice I spilled on your lawn
and lingering on the things I said that sounded like my mother,
I drank myself to whispers so I could stop myself from yelling.
There are books about people like me,
people like me whose whispers hurt their children,
but that's the only good reason to be forty and bitter and alone.

So alone that I forget to check the expiration date on yogurt,
so bitter that I like 100% cocoa  chocolate.
I can hear you forgiving me, as if everything I do is okay
at least, maybe until I stop chewing something that isn’t there.
You make me feel like I overreact, when you're the one who loved me;
when you're the one who left.

And when you went the door was left ajar
because it doesn't matter who sees into my house,
but it matters that I could see into your heart (******* hypocrite).

Three years makes you feel like you've had your laugh lines forever
but you didn't make me smile
and you couldn't see any difference in my eyes
when I'm obviously seeing you in such a different way.
Facing you earlier in the backyard was like looking at myself
(when I was twelve)
and it made me happy to be eating 100% cocoa
and paying for my rent in cash from my back pocket.

I’d forgotten what it was to be afraid of speaking,
to be afraid of being alone.

You were the only one who held my stares,
your eyes were moons
invisibly courting me, sleeping next to me,
whispering to me gently as soft as you were.
I was not soft,
but angry and calloused and alone.

I cradled you each night as if you were ice cream,
or pills
or anything to take the pain away.
You were warm and solid and alive,
but I wasted it;
went out buying lemons and mouse traps
until I could figure out what I really needed.

All you had to do was sit with me,
watch me,
play with me,
nap with me,
to teach me how to live.

But it wasn't until you were gone
that I knew I was in love.

Sometimes I wish I could drive for once,
instead of always watching the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand
as if it doesn't even matter that you're driving,
as if it isn't my life in your hands
or our child's in the back seat.

You're crazy and unrelenting,
you're stealing and hunting,
and it's not something I understand.

I like it when you hold me and I can know your being,
I like it when I can feel what you feel for me  
and I can empathize and be hurt and you can smile, and forget it.
But it's how we are, not who we are.
Because you let me go too soon, and all I could feel was warm.