For a long time, I promised myself that I would not let
beautiful people with titanium hearts
tattoo themselves on my lungs.
But here we are, tripping out of this
goddamn nightmare again.
I wish I could rip off my skin
and make it into something that you’ve never touched, see,
even my bruises groan your name at three a.m.,
waking me up from dreams where you’re not my wrecking ball.
I drank three cups of coffee today to have an excuse
for shaking over you, but the anger came anyway.
I pretend all this screaming is getting you out of my system,
but we both know we left it too late for me not to shatter.
When you retell this story, I will be the villain.
I know this because that’s how it’s happened every time,
with the blame pinned down my spine.
Yes, you like your girls funny, but you only know
how to make them sad, and that’s where the hard nights came in,
with your voice a flat line on the heart monitor,
saying words that made you sound dead inside.
I saw you as a person, you saw me as a way to kill time.
Now I’m fucking beating my poetry to death,
trying to make something other than you come out,
but I end up puking your name onto the page
like you’ve ingrained it into my bones.
This is not your home. Do not turn me into an elegy,
I am so much better than that.
Ever since I met you, every poem’s worn your face,
and I tried to make this one about anything but your smile
and all the lies that led us here,
but you’re still my stigmata.
Every fucking time, Goddamn it.