I threw you into the ocean
Watched you flounder
Screaming—
Small and silly.

The ring was barely
Too big
For my little finger
(Probably fit just right on your ****)

I threw it too—
A stony life preserver
For the small-dicked
And emotionally stunted.

I hope you hate yourself,
Darling.
I hope your time below the surface
Is all
Baking soda and sardines.

You ******* sadboy
You bigot in sheep’s clothing
You needy, whiny little
Thing.

The ocean was the best
Thing
That could have
Happened to you

Remember that
Thing
When you

Drown.

I don’t know why
You pretended
To love me

Or how you faked
The whispered sighs and
Shattered hourglasses

Or where I’ll go
Now that home
Isn’t you anymore.

I don’t know why
You pretended
To love me

When it’s easier
To use a brick
To soften me

Or to slice my
Pretty thighs—
(Would I drain the way you like?)

I don’t know why
You pretended
To love me-

Other boys would burn me
Hit me
(Run me over with a tractor?)

You were never
A stickler for
Legality-

What’s the
*******
Problem
Then?

You promised
Never
To hurt me
But
I knew
You would
Grind me up
Take me—
A chewable
Antidepressant
There for
Your joy
(God willing).

You said you
Never
Wanted
To love me
It was just
A Thing
That happened—
I was just
A Thing
That happened
(To you).

I
Always
Wanted
To love you
I worked
I cried
I made waves
Happen
I thought
It would be
Cruel
If they didn’t
(Work now).

I
Never
Loved you
But couldn’t
Let you
Know—
You didn’t
Deserve
The pain
(You caused).

You were
The one
In love
But still
The one
Who threw me
Away—
The most
Gorgeous
Thing
(In the Recycling bin).

I don't care what you think; I have this Xanax.

I tried to write a poem
to get the feelings out.
They said poetry
Went with angst
Almost as well as
Sylvia Plath
and-
Repetition.

But I wrote a poem
And another
And another
And another.

And they felt wrong
And got shorter and shorter
And less and less creative
And didn’t look much like art

Painting is art
Sculpture is art
Music is art.
Whining isn’t.

That’s the thing
With poetry;
It’s art
Or it’s nothing

And I seemed like a nothing
And I must have felt nothing
Because nothing was on the page
And I had nothing left to add

Because “Why do good people die?”
Is trite
And “Is war such a good idea?”
Has been done
by the Beatles.
“I can’t stop crying”
Mostly rings true for babies
And they rarely
If ever
Read poems.

So I had only one word
That could sum up the tight
and the hurt
and the lost
And a word’s not a poem
At all-
is it?

I wish I were eloquent
I wish it were pretty
I wish my hands
could heal you
And my voice
could soothe you
And my laugh
infect you
And my heart
reach you
My words
touch you
My arms
hold you
and
fix
you
but
all
I
have
is
“you."

Break it
it’s what’s wrong
break it.
Do it.
Waiting?
Do it.
Do it till it can’t
be done anymore
Break it apart
till it bleeds.
Beaten
Bulldozed
Battered
Burned
Busted
Bruised
******
Br­oken

Beautiful.

A flaw.
Small.
No one notices, probably.
It’s nothing.
Calm down.
It's fine, calm down.
You’re fine
It’s the spot
not you.
No worries
You’re fine.
People would ****
to be you
to have what you have
your looks
They’d ****.

****
****
****.