One day I won’t write poems about what you did to me.
I won’t make metaphors for how it felt when you broke my heart.
I won’t let the memory of you bloom like a cherry blossom bruise
underneath the porcelain sky of my skin, and I won’t
warn other men about the love letters I’ve written to you
that they still might find in the file cabinets of my heart.
I will have already tossed them out, one by one into the inferno
of my soul. One day I won’t care if you burn, and I won’t
wish for you to find the staircase of enlightenment that is my spine.
I will stop sticking white flags into the flesh of my thighs, waving
out my surrender with those shiny lines that dance like strings of pearls
across my epidermis, and I know these scars won’t heal,
but I also know from experience that they will fade, just like
my desire for you has already waned from a forest fire
to a candle flame, and it is flickering in the wind of your absence.
One day the breeze will pick up enough to blow it out entirely.
Life isn’t just a series of birthdays, or a series of pain. I am
trying to learn that, and they say that sometimes we mistake
lessons for soulmates, and I am trying to be okay with that.
I just once looked at you and thought I saw what made up me,
but I am not an extension of anyone or anything, I am not
a puzzle of your dysfunction, your inability to love, and I am not
going to spend a lifetime hating you or writing poetry
about how I used to see moonshine in your eyes,
and how drunk I would get on those looks we’d share,
like mason jars full of liquor passed back and forth.
One day I won’t care, and the moment I stop is the moment
my words will be written about someone else, always, and yet,
for now, I am still trying to figure out how you could let someone
you once said could be everything just walk away like this,
but one day I will no longer search for the answer
of why you never loved me well, and how you refused to even try.