I get lost in what I didn’t do, what I didn’t say.
Like, hi, how are you, can I be your forever friend?
Girls learn early not to over-romanticize. Especially girls who look like me.
Class and beauty norms and then there I was, making poetry
out of every goddam word and
he was right. Nothing Happened.
(But I wanted it to.)
Nothing happened, except in the parentheses, the margins.
Nothing happened, and I only told everyone else I loved him.
I think he must have been horrified.
I think someone must have told him and he must have been horrified.
I think I am a monster and what I call love is only snakes that
turn men to stone.
I think I am Medusa.
The horrible secret I have been hiding from him is that secret.
I am sick, my body is broken and I have made a disaster
out of my life, but.
I loved him.
I thought the best gift I could give him was a life without me in it.
Even better: me in his head, a pretty blonde girl in his bed.
Isn’t that the dream?
As a journal entry prompt, I am writing my own obituary.
Tell him I loved him the best I knew how.
Won’t you? Please?