I am so ******* sick of hearing songs about boys.
I am tired of looking into the eyes and into the hearts of beautiful, lovable women,
And finding emptiness that shouldn't be there,
Voids left by lovers who should have never been let in.

I'm sick of poems about the way his hand felt on your chest.
I'm sorry that he wasn't reaching for your heart,
I'm sorry that you were blinded by the first person who pretended that *** means love.
I'm so sorry that you carried the weight of him on your back as he directed you in digging your own grave.
But he is not poetry.

He is not the way that music lifts your heart outside of your body when you dance alone.
His hands are not the hands that pulled you off the floor when you didn't think you had the strength to stand.
His mouth is not the mouth that keeps you breathing,
Alive,
Singing,
Kissing,
Laughing.
And his heart is not the heart that beats in your chest,
No matter how much heavier your torso seems since he left.
His body is not poetry.

But yours is.

They were your legs, weren't they, that walked you home,
Even after he knocked you to the ground,
Even after your knees buckled for him.
If I recall, your arms threw his **** down the stairs
And out of your life.
It was your lungs that screamed,
"I deserve more. I am more".
And it was your heart that bled.
It was your heart that prayed.
That hoped.
That loved.
It was all you,
Always you.

And that is poetry,
You.
You are the poem.