I plucked a book from my closet
The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
I open to a random
573
The Test of Love -- is Death

It hurts
to hold this book
to hold this poem
in my hands

because you got me this book

you showed me all the most painful things
brand new, this book, ******* you with wine in my veins
and played me out, and I was young and dumb
I should have played the game, but I flipped out
you were terribly cute, threateningly Norwegian
I HATE to admit this, but I STILL love you like
the deepest laceration, the sorest wound of this animal
though I know it to be only longing
for the semblance of a truly wild life.

It hurts so bad because I'll die and never talk to you again
I always purposefully acted crazy and burned bridges with every ex-lover
Here's what I held from myself:

I know that I am good enough
That I don't have to worry
That I will overwrite your memory
With new love, true and blazing bright
And it will all be okay. More than that,
It will mean more than you could ever mean to me.