To The Boy Who Broke My Heart

The first time of course.

It’s been years since we were dating.

You still appear.

You say you want me back and yet you act like every other boy who just wants to play with my heart.

You are a cat.

But you’re not one domesticated.

You like to play with broken things and my heart is made of strings.

You think all of these knots are going to unwind for you?

Think they’re gonna be easy for you?

Do you really think I’ll let you play with them?

The squirt bottle full of water is my countless rejections.

I tell you “No, stay off the counter that holds my vase full of flowers.”

I had a wilted white rose and it reminded me of you.

It was once so pure but now the thorns run deep through my skin if I touch it.

It’s dead now.

I loved it once.

You said you’re nothing like it but you’re just as destructive.

You have the same façade of being attractive and pure, but I know what you are.

You knocked the vase down.

You want a second chance.

Or is it now the third?

Fourth, maybe?

You still appear in the people I meet.

I know you said you wish you hadn’t started it.

You’re an avalanche, what can I say?

The last guy who broke my heart had everything similar down to the lies told to me.

I could fluff this up with figurative language and come up with a million different ways to say that you hurt me.

That you paved the path of ruin.

That my heart is a battlefield and each trench built is another person trying to love me,

but only hurt the terrain.

I could point out how you only ever want to talk to me if I lead you on.

How you’ll talk to me for twelve days before I remind you that you and I aren’t going to happen again,

and then you disappear.

I could point that out and then mention how every guy you don’t want to be does the same thing to me.

I could write you a poem because that’s what you wanted.

And yet, it’ll never be enough for as long as I’m in it.

For as long as you’re in it.

Here’s your fucking poem.