sometimes i remember what i think i wanted to say,
what i was trying to say the entire time.

i go to write it down,
it disappears.

i don’t remember what poems i showed you,
but i remember hating myself afterword.

wanting to know how or why i felt all these things,
and you took photos of empty spaces.

you were all big words,
our relationship was your bed and me naked in it,
trying to take up less space
and i guess i succeeded in that-
i've disappeared altogether now.

you hated my unfiltered words
because they made me sound broken,
waiting to be fixed.
you were always trying to put me back together
and i was always trying to be
less than ten thousand pieces-
or at least enough to fill you with.