it gets a little pathetic
when i'm writing poems about boy number four
and they ring the same tone as the ones before,
when their touches and words and kisses
are interchangeable
and they are reduced to nothing more than
a number

i’m throwing myself a pity party,
in honor of a new milestone;
a pattern repetitive enough that i can predict it months in advance
but do nothing to stop it
i’m throwing myself a pity party,
and you’re all invited

share your stories with one another
about dear old me,
the girl who once had the brightest smile and the sweetest hugs,
who fell slowly and hard for the idea of a boy,
convincing herself she could love him, forcing herself to love him.
how similar are your stories
about the one who thrived on your love
until she was left cold and starved?

i say she loved you, but really
you know she didn’t;
now you know you are a number on a list,
one she doesn’t even know about,
knocked down before she moves down to the next
you now know she is a master of manipulation,
for she has tricked us all into thinking she is the victim
but how conscious of her own manipulations is she?

this girl’s sleep comes in restless fits,
interrupted by images of boys that blend in together;
the one who ****** her in the dark,
the one who turned her heart into a pit stop,
the one who smiled into her eyes while he twisted a knife in her back

and you, boy number four,
the one who has already managed to break her
maybe it gets easier the more worn down she is,
the closer she is to the bottom of the list

maybe she doesn’t know there is a list,
a cut-off line,
a pattern of boys;
the harshest truth this girl has ever faced
is the inevitability of loneliness
and she is blindly going through the motions
of someone looking for love,
though perhaps she can’t even do that

so i am throwing myself a pity party,
and letting my ghosts keep me company.