i hate the fact,
we held hands
on the cold January night-
we kept each other warm.

i hate the fact,
i let Your lips kiss mine-
i’m sorry
if i did it wrong.

i hate the fact,
your hands held my body
as if it was the most beautiful
violin in the world-
my strings broke,

i’m hurt.

i hate the fact,
we cooked together -
now i can’t look at food.

i hate the fact,
Your fingers ran through my hair,
as if it was silk and You, a sewer-
I want to cut it short.

i hate the fact,
I opened myself to You,
my home -
and You left;
please, come back,
You didn’t close the door.

i hate the fact,
my ears were so used to
the words you spoke
that Van Gogh no longer seems
like a man done wrong.

i hate the fact,
your eyes stared at mine
like a blind man saw the sky;
i can no longer find the constellations
at night.

i hate the fact,
Your soul hugged mine
so warm,
i felt home.

i hate the fact,
You came and took from me,
and like a broken cup-
i’m still spilling tears
over memories.

lastly,

i hate the fact
You had to leave
and so did all my parts
You’ve ever touched,
You’ve ever kissed.

They ripped apart  
so hard,
so painfully,
away from me
that i’m still

                      bleeding.

A water bottle perched
on a desk, cluttered
with papers. Old writing,
portfolios of work half-forgotten.
A hand grips the bottle,
untwists the cap,
sips. Right now,
her words
are her only friend.

I want to swallow myself whole
and feel this pain implode on itself.

I want to bite my flesh
and spit poison on the street.

I want to claw my face off
and look the way I feel: an old onion.

I want to die now
and take this weight off these tired feet.