it's just

that I hope macaroni and
cheese makes you miss me
and that you'll be downtown
and drive by my building and
see my car and feel an ache in
your chest because you are not
allowed inside anymore and
that your hands can barely
play all those songs you wrote
about me at your shows and
that the book on astronomy I
gave you glares at you from
the shelf and that no one will
kiss you like I did, no one will
make you shiver like I did, no
one will light a fire inside of you
like
I
did.

who I want to be is
trapped beneath my
skin, stretching
stretching,
tearing at my
seams.
she cries, "let him go
and the wound will
set me free. oh, god,
please."

the inside of your mind must
be a beautiful place but you
never let me in, never let
me see, never let me
learn, never never
never

I lost the power to write long
words about you back when
you lost faith in what I had
to offer. Instead you have
become a jumbled mess
on paper, the only problem
on the sheet I can't solve.
I have begged for
reconciliation for months
now, traveled down a
path you paved just
for me to find that
you built a concrete wall
with a ladder only
on your side.
I deserve so
much more
than this.

I spread out everything I had inside
of me on your living room
floor
in small, neat stacks.
I said
fix me
fix me
fix me
please
but you didn't know
how.

back the first time you said "I'm not
worried because I know our story
isn't even close to finished"
and I didn't believe you.

I still don't
believe
you.