And this is how it always ends: my friends blaming him and
empty tubes of chapstick, and
fingernails, half painted, chipping black flakes
into the carpet.
He is in her bed, and I am naked
on the floor of my shower
weeping for two hours straight, until the water runs cold and
I am late for work, my skin sagging like the circles under my eyes.
It doesn’t end with goodbye,
just fewer hellos, and a silent cellphone,
Relearning how to be alone.
So I will sink, and you will go swimming with her in the atlantic,
and it always ends this way: I am trying to stay away from mirrors,
trying not to hear her name
in conversation. I think of all the ways she is better than me,
and the ones who came before her. I think that I will be alone forever.
And I am afraid of being me. And I am afraid of the freedom.
And it hurts; I am disposable. Sometimes it feels so painfully cyclical.
I am a filler, a snack between meals that you eat
because you are bored.
I flake off
like nail polish. Under the covers of my bed I swear
that this is it. That I will learn to love this. That alone
my bed is a palace, and my books
are little beds themselves. That I will build a web,
But in the morning, her face still stings behind my eyelids
and I am still drawing wedding rings on my finger in sharpie.
I am learning not to fear me,