When My Writing Is All You Have

Google my name
to see how I am
because it is no longer your place
to ask me directly.
That door has been slammed.

You no longer have access
to my life.
So you read what I write,
try to memorize each line,
because once again,
my heart
is mine.

You collect verses of my poetry
and attempt to
reconstruct them
until you can convince yourself
that you have always been
my muse.

Honey,
the only thing you ever inspired
was my gag reflexes
and my feet
to carry me
far away from you.

Now, I’m just a girl
with a name
that feels like home,
and you are a line
that barely made it
in to one of my poems.

Time was wasted
but lessons
were learned.
You blew your chance,
the bridge is burned.

I’m so thankful.
I’m actually glad,
because now
my writing
is all you have.

If you find my old poems
that I wrote for you
and read them aloud
in an empty room,
all you’ll hear in the echo
is “We were doomed.”

My words
won’t keep you warm
when you’re all alone.
When your heart is breaking,
they won’t be there
to answer the phone.

They won’t take care of you
when you’re sick or sad.
They’ll only remind you
of what you almost had.

Years from now,
when you tuck your kids
in at night
and they look back at you
with your own big bright eyes,
and you tell them a story
to help them sleep,
just remember
it was written by me.

When she lays next to you at night
kept awake
by the light
of your screen,
asking what you do,
and what it is that you read,
I hope someday
you find the courage to tell her the truth:
You never got over me.

TCID: gina-clingan