I don’t want you to be poetry anymore.
I am tired; no longer tied to self-doubt.
I have been spinning in circles of confusion,
trying to find reasons for being without you but
there’s not much more to think.
You don’t want me.
This would have broken me before:
I’m a terrible mix of breasts and male ego.
I was awkward, I know, but
I can’t cut myself up about it anymore.
Yesterday, another man wanted to make me his wife.
I wonder if you care that your friends would marry me.
Four men have wanted me forever and you
don’t want me at all. Stupid man.
This is not the poem I wanted to write but
it’s 3:03 am and I’m tired of thinking about you.
I want you to go away.
Or come back.
I wish you had looked through
the eyes that I shut down.
I wish you had listened to everyone
and forgotten what I showed you.
Now I challenge men over nothing at all,
determined to fight you through them.
I will be beautiful and difficult and coy
The worst part is:
you won’t have a clue of what I am talking about
until someone else breaks your heart.
You’re the first heart I didn’t want to break.
You’re the first heart that didn’t let me.