Once, when we were younger
I painted everything red
and you kissed my cheek
and I was better.
I heard somewhere that
when the plane went down, you shoved
pretty poems into
ebony boxes
just so I could know you.
Sometime in the summer,
the heat played about my cheeks
and I believed in monsters.
You quickly and efficiently
shot them away
with your blessed,
cool words.
Ugly, drunken women
screeching out love-sick lullabies,
while we choke on the slime
that makes up our regret.
In the end,
the lullabies are all that should have meant a thing
to me.
Somebody told me once,
while I unlatched the exit,
that once you step away from a person
there ain't no going back.
The thing is, while I'm walking down
dirt-coloured roads,
all I think of is you
and how there is no going back.
I've become the expert on
breaking shallow hearts
and hiding behind colourful sunglasses.
You've become my number one
(enemy).
You've hurt me in 102 ways
so I've learned to humble myself
and apologize in 101 ways.
My sick need for revenge is what I lay the blame on.
When at night I brush my teeth,
the apologies I couldn't utter
(while you hung on the dead space of my telephone)
stick in the back of my throat.
I gag on them.
