He tells me that I will make one hell of a poem
One hell of a story

And he says it like a threat
Like this is the first time I will consider the literary value of my being

But he is sadly mistaken
Because he will never write as many love poems about me as I have written to myself

The summer I stopped reading his letters
I wrote myself a poem for every day that I was stronger without him

I wrote the vows for the holy matrimony of my two good thighs
I wrote the preface for every novel I may someday compose
I wrote love songs to the children I will never bear.

My poetry has known every part of me in ways he never could.