(Broken)

I am not pretty,

I confess;

But I will love (you)

While you ask me to bid goodbye.

I won’t even write about hope

any (more),

yours is a granite door painted-shut,

painted-out.

I won’t write about

fireplaces and your lips on my shoulders

deep long talks about birthing dreams

climbing mountains

a house with lots of windows

laughter

and pillows

hands curling feet by the lake.

I said hold on, give me a second;

And you didn’t wait

not a second, not for me,

but (quickly) filed me away in that category

full of index cards and manila folders,

misshapen lives and unwanted women.

That’s where I belong now,

in a gray metal cabinet,

while you look on with distaste.

Like I am a lemon while all you want is chocolate

lava cake.

Before I knew it,

we were reduced to a plain waste

of a contract, your cold hard math

and unilateral decisions,

like human relationships don’t matter,

like I never once brought you any joy.

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3 thoughts on “(Broken)

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