I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me.
That you are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body.
You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms
and she will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine
or eyes that never stay dry.
You will fall into her bed and I’ll go back to spending Friday nights
with boys who never learn my last name.

I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me
You think it’s romantic to **** the girl who writes poems about you.
You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own.
But I will show up at your door at 2 am, wild-eyed and sleepless.
And try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone
and you will not let me in.
You will tell me to go home