“
Some days, I’m still sixteen and burning bridges.
I’ve seen a lot of war zones in these past few months,
between the edges of your razorblade teeth.
I’m waking up to nightmares of still being
in love with you, then finding out
I wasn’t dreaming at all –
I stayed up all last night writing about how I’m over you.
It’s funny how my way of being over you is thinking about you
every goddamn day.
Going through our old letters this morning,
I realized “over” shares three letters with “love,”
and I blamed the dictionary
for still missing you.
See, you always had my heart in your clenched fist –
I’ve never been fond of your crash-and-burn kind of
love, six months of sweet-talking wedding bells
and words that sound a lot like forever,
then sudden ice ages and statue days.
I didn’t know goodbye could be so bitter until you
weren’t the one to say it, and I was leaving you
for the hope of someone
who might actually love me back again.
Now I’m hopping trains, running away
from the thought of you kissing someone else,
and I’ve ended up choking on my splintered blood.
They couldn’t love you like I did, could they?
Not with the warm bodies and soft words,
not with my name smeared across your belly in light
lilac bruises.
There are days when I’m breaking down your door
and stealing back all my love-stained clothing,
pressing razorblades into the walls to remind you that there are ways
to bleed on the inside
and that’s exactly what you did to me
There are days when
I’m still sixteen
and burning bridges.
”
”
d.a.s.