You are the dirt bag I carried with me
from junior to senior year.  
Filled to the brim with soil
harvested from frozen ground.  
You opened the top and let me toss seeds
inside in hopes that they would grow.
You allowed them to bloom
only enough for your thorns
and weeds to choke them out.  
You are the worst
in the Parable of the Sower.  
You are the ***** purse I carried at the hip,
the shade of **** that only I purchased,
the grass stains on my jeans, and
the bare spot between the greens.
You are the dirt bag that left me
halfway through prom to fish
with his dad; the stained carry-on
who said good-bye through his friends,
and the **** I wish I’d wacked.
You are the dirt bag I let go.