There comes a time in every poet’s life
when they realize what kind of poet they really are,
am a heartbreak poet.
I don’t know how this happened,
But my emotions can be seen from space.
I have the ability to articulate an emphasis on the description of my feelings
like I was taking a highlighter to smiles and tears.
Half the time when I’m on stage
it’s only because my feelings got hurt
and I wanted everyone to know,
not only that,
but I want to take you all down with me,
I’m that drowning asshole grabbing peoples ankles on the way down.
So this is a letter to one of my ex-girlfriends.
We became what I never thought we would become,
but for a while
it was like we couldn’t get our hands on enough paint
to cover the canvas at our feet.
When we met,
you were more like a road map torn in half
and I was a GPS speaking a broken language.
Everywhere we went,
we left behind the people giving us guidance.
It was as if the creases in our directions
wanted our imperfections to match each other,
to meet each other half-way
so we started touching each other a little differently,
we began reading it in each others skin
like homemade tattoos,
or bedroom back scratches of nameless acts.
I liked you so much
that I wanted to delete my browsing history
before I invited you over.
But I respected you so much that I didn’t,
and I just left it like an open window,
you made me fearless when it came what turned me on.
I don’t know if this is a misogynist poem, or not,
but I still want to call you mine.
I can deal with being alone,
just not both of us being alone at the same time.
Because you were the answer I was looking for
and I was a reason for you to stay behind,
just to keep your mind busy,
this perfect distraction,
just tall enough to keep you from seeing
what was waiting for you,
until we became more comfortable
with telling each other about our days than actually sharing them.
You were the hand written letters
lost in a stack of memories.
I was the envelope
that cut the corners of your mouth open
when all I wanted to do was kiss you.
I have written the first half
of too many emails to remember.
You became the price tag of my future
I wound up being more like the receipt of your past.
We left each other buried
in my wallet and your purse,
beneath other people’s pictures,
beside transit passes and
behind all the things we used more often than each other.
I think at some point trying to keep things playful,
we only started playing games with each other,
like hide and seek
became the way we moved through the room.
Speaking only through notes on walls
and tagged pictures online.
In our minds
we created an impossible future for us,
one so disgustingly romantic
it kicked the shit out of the Notebook
in a Pulp Fiction kind of way.
I don’t know
if you believe me when I say I’m sorry,
but I mean it.
Like when I was mean to you
for no other reason than to get your attention.
I meant it.
But I just wanted to be your dirt,
that rough filth scratching you clean,
caught beneath you fingernails
after such long days
of building these sandcastle housing projects together.
I’m not even with you anymore,
but I still toy with the idea
of letting you go
and I still keep the pictures you gave me,
but I haven’t looked at them in a long time,
they’re somewhere in the distance,
kept at bay,
stacked in a folder,
tucked into a bag and
locked in an empty room.