Where were you when I was still kind?
They say, heart breakers don’t write poetry.
We sit at bars, at party and in clubs until alcohol replaces the blood in our veins.
We never write about our side of the story.
They think it’s beautiful when a victim apologizes for falling in love, will it be the same if I apologize for not being as clumsy?
I’m sorry you fell over your feet because you were too busy going over your head, I’m sorry you live more so in your head. I’m sorry I can’t love you like the way you think love is suppose to be but I need you to know that I tried.
Sorry for kissing all those girls after we just broke up, I needed to get the taste of you off my tongue, I needed to feel meaningless to someone again.
I’m sorry that I couldn’t fall for you but it sure as hell feels like I’ve fell. Is that beautiful enough?
A man once told me that God fed us poetry through our prayers,
but this one got stuck on the way down.
I’m used to the beat of words against my spine,
the slash and sting of it.
I know I’m meant to be stained with ink,
but this poem made me think about the way
words become knife wounds more and more these days.
I am meant to be healing.
I am meant to be better.
But I’m still up until three, relearning
the phrases for ‘dying’ like this isn’t lies
pulled from the nearest dictionary,
a salt pillar stranded in the soft Sodom desert.
Was this what you wanted, God?
Did you want the poems to burn me from the inside-out,
because, I swear if it was,
that’s what you’ve got:
my fingers all twitchy and ink-smeared,
writing haikus in the margins of your Holy Book –
a poet before a person.
No wonder your name becomes choked in my throat:
with all these commas you shoved
down my trachea, it’s a miracle
I don’t suffocate on the things unsaid.
I know you gave me words to help write
the end of the world, but this poem is not a gift.
This poem is rotten, apocalyptic dirty.
This poem is sin.