fuck you I’m a shitty writer

you’re still here,
in my mind.
I can’t help it,
but you’re always there.
Up there in the trees,
where even the hardest shakes prove no avail.

I understand it,
I do,
and why you’ll never date another writer again.
To everyone else,
I get it too.

I’m just another heartbreak,
turned “writer.”
But you don’t get it,
that slowly,
always slowly,
each word, and
every word,
chips away
at the shadow of her.

Every poem, word,
song, and idea,
force me to move her
from my memory to the page.
and I can’t stop,
not until she’s all here,
because I’d rather this heavy heart
be carried by these pages
than the blood in my veins.

I need her all here,
in black and white,
and static,
so she can’t hurt me anymore.
I need all of her,
here
in print,
so I can burn the memory of her
into a cloud of kryptonite smoke.


2 thoughts on “fuck you I’m a shitty writer

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