You liked that I wrote poetry at first, eager for everything I ever wrote.
Every day you would encourage me to
go sit down and write,
every day you would carry a pen around with you
in case I was inspired while we were out.
Soon you began asking me questions like, “Is this the same girl you wrote about before? Did you love her more than me?”
and soon after that
you were digging through my notebooks in the middle of the night
as I laid in your bed pretending to be asleep,
crying because you never saw your name in any of them.
You said that you couldn’t love me any longer
because I never wrote about you,
but honest to god, all I write about is tragedy,
and I desperately didn’t want you to be another one.
There are over one million words
in the English language and every one that
I tried to use to turn you into poetry
were never beautiful enough
to have your name near them.