you never read my poems.

did you even know I wrote poems?

you knew I wrote short stories.
you wrote with me.

but poetry?
my very soul?
the thing that makes days, weeks, months, years, bearable?

you never read any of it.
you didn't care.

holly jeanette (you loved my middle name) you need to write more!

I wrote tons.
you didn't mean poems.
you meant stories that benefitted you, not me.
you never cared.
I was so afraid to share that big part of myself.

but you never asked.
I dropped subtle hints.
ugh, need a new poetry journal
I prefer poems to stories.
and once, hey babe, wanna read this thing I wrote?

but my poetry never appealed to you.
my poetry didn't do anything for you.
mís poemas te dejaste friá.

you never cared about the thing that made me happiest.
you cared only about the thing that you thought made me happiest, you.