Tell me the story
of when the earth stood
still
long enough for you
to remember
how warm her smile was,

how beautiful her eyes were,

how she was the sun.

Tell me the story
of when the moon
swept her away
into the oceans

because she was the pull from
the moon to the earth.

Tell me the story
of when,
on that fateful day,
you realized

she was inevitability.

it's three in the morning and
for the first time in so long,
the silence that rings in my ears doesn't remind me to think of you.
hours ago, i wondered when I would stop thinking-
when I would stop thinking of you.
yet now I feel strong.
now i feel like I could spend
three seconds, minutes, hours
being tortured by the silence and I'd be unphased.
I'd be unaware of you.

You hate my poems
You say they take me from you
that they're pointless
a waste of time
maybe you're right.
You read them,
just the words as they fall,
and say you get nothing
just syllables.
I have lost count
of the sighs and eyerolls,
the you have no talents,
they sit in a memory box
along with the times you've asked me to stop.
Stop.
Just like that.
Stop pouring myself onto paper,
Stop looking for beauty in darkness,
Stop healing.
You prefer me broken, fragile, dependant,
the girl you took from nowhere to god knows where
a once pretty, broken thing
to hang silently from your arm
while you talk proudly of the soul that you saved.
You fear that my writing will end us.
I fear that my stopping will end me.