I hadn't cried in years. I was always taught that strength was not having the courage to let yourself feel but ******* it up, holding it in. I am sick of "You're going soft on us, honey" Today I came to understand that you are completely okay with writing the same poem over and over again. This is a metaphor for the way you ****** her in my bed. This is a metaphor for the night you copy and pasted love letters. This is a metaphor for what really happened- I never fall in the same place twice. Except when I do. I think the critical difference between the two of us, critical because there are many differences but- I think our hamartia, our fatal flaw, our end scene is this: if people didn't like my poetry, if nobody listened, if I walked out on stage and nobody snapped their fingers, I would still write for just your eyes. I would still cramp my crooked, birth defect, quadruple jointed fingers writing to you about the nights you loved me back, for a minute there you loved me back. And you loved 20,000 other people back. And you loved small towns back and big cities back and the entire west coast back when you drove through, making temporary homes out of people who should have been permanent and I loved you. And I hadn't cried in years. Not because I wasn't sad, but because I was taught that showing emotion was weakness. So if my father made me memorize the How To's of strength, if I were going by the book, today I'd be so fragile you could say hello and I'd shatter so suddenly you'd forget you were the one that let go.