I want to stop writing poetry about you;
it all goes hand in hand:
the knotted, hollow stomach,
the sore heart still simmering.
It all goes hand in hand,
the way your hand no longer goes in my hand.
The faded marks on my arms scribble
a history of fury. I etched self-doubt
onto my skin time and time again,
ripping apart each every opportunity to heal.
She said, I’m not angry anymore,
and I can’t quite believe that I agree.
I have been spinning storms of rage for so long
it’s strange to sing a different song.
It is Wednesday and still I cannot eat.
The faded marks on my arms tell me
I got over them so I know that,
I will stop writing poetry about you.