I believe my muse may be a tease.
It will visit me with an idea,
but not the words to express it.
I am
FRUSTRATED.
My vocabulary
and eloquence
and articulation
have
dim-
in-
ished.
A poem will start itself;
The end product will be
WRONG.
Un-natural,
un-flowing,
un-readable,
un-me.
****
that
b­astard
teasing
muse.
(Although this is a poem -
and in being a poem, has created a paradox.
Nobody think about it!
If you do it will all disappear:
Poem, muse, and me.)

i don’t know what it is
you know that thing that makes my stomach -
and my throat -
and my brow -
and my breath -
and my eyes -
and my anger -

…

well whatever the hell it is
you are ******* LOUSY with it

Dear *******,

          This is the hateful letter. This is the one in which I tell you how much of a ****-head you are and how I am so much better off without you, so thanks for leaving me. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. This is where I tell you that you’re an idiot if you ever thought I depended on you for my self-worth, because I don’t need you for validation, and I never have. I was trucking along just fine before you came along, and will continue to do so without you, so you can go **** yourself.
          This is the part where I call you a dumb-*** for saying all those things you said. If you weren’t trying to hurt me, you must be an idiot to think that it was a good idea to say what you did. I’ll tell you that it ****** me off to realize that you obviously didn’t know me as well as I thought you did. It ****** me off that our communication was clearly not functioning like it should have been.
          And I’ll tell you how ******* livid it makes me that you just sat there and thought and thought and ******* thought about this while I was still writing ******* poems for you. I am angry at how oblivious I was, which I also blame on you. I blame you for being so introspective and quiet, for needing to think important issues through in your head, only with yourself, before you can voice them, and I am angry because you thought and thought and ******* thought and made a decision that was logical from the inside of your head and you were confused by my reaction because, surprise! Owen’s-head-logic is not the same as Katie-is-being-broken-up-with-logic. And that’s where your speech faltered, where I stopped saying the lines that you wrote for me in your script, and that’s when all of those stupid words came tumbling out of your stupid head and things continued to not go as planned and it all eventually cumulated in this: zero contact. I know it’s not what you wanted but you’re a dumb-***. If you were smarter about it, we may still have been talking, but you said all of the exact wrong things. So I am angry at you for hurting me with your idiotic words, but I am also angry at you for pushing me away. I may have liked to still be talking to you, but all of the **** that came out of your mouth just ruined whatever chance we could have had, so way to go. You are a ruiner - and so concludes the part where everything is always your fault.
          This is the part where I understand where you’re coming from, I would have broken up with me too if I were you, I know it’s hard for you to put your words together sometimes, I know your (brutal) honesty only comes from a place of love, I know you love me, I know you miss being my friend…and so on.
          That last section makes me sadder than I am willing to be at this point, so I think I’ll stick with anger for the time being and you can **** my nonexistent ****, *******.

Your Ex-Girlfriend.

Yours,

          I know where you live (how many times have I walked in the door, as if I lived there myself? Opened the cupboard, filled a glass with water, asked about your roommate’s days? Kicked my shoes off nonchalantly, checked my email on your computer, spread out on your bed and read a novel while you played video games? Sat on your couch to watch television with the rest of your house, my legs draped over yours? Slept in your bed, pressed up against your body? Was woken up to satisfy a primal urge, knowing what you like? Kept the volume of my moans down, not out of embarrassment, your roommates have heard me so many times it hardly matters, but out of respect for the early hour? Made myself some toast, drank some juice from your fridge, left you sweetly sleeping to catch the bus?).
          I know where you work (and when, when there is no point for me to look for you, glimpse you in your uniform, a quick kiss before class, join you on your break while you eat turkey and cranberry sauce).
          I somehow find myself in these places. I look up from being lost in thought, and panic as I realize that I could run into you at any moment. Seeing you hurts me so I rush away from these danger zones - but always glancing back.
          Why do I torture myself so, with the hurt comes from seeing you, thinking of you? Because one day, I know I will see you without distress. One day I may smile in recollection at the love we once had. I am tortured every day with the sight of you by the hope that finally, this day is the last you will cause me pain.

Mine.