The Last Poem

If being loved makes you uncomfortable,
you're more screwed up than I am.
Somehow you drew me in like the first
fifteen minutes of a Lifetime original.
I waited, keeping an eye out for
anyone to come barging in, demanding to
know when I'd become so cliché.

This is the last poem I'll write for you.

How could I think you were different?
It must have been the way the lights
angled in your soul and cast a shadow familiar.
Like every lost toy from childhood came
marching, single file, up the driveway
until you snatched back my delight.

This is the last poem I'll write for you.

You are a stain on my heart.
It feels like losing your virginity and
realizing once your first leaves, you're hungry.
There's nothing left in my heart to pour out.
That's how I appear to you, I'm sure.
Emotionally smutty.
The girl who doesn't spend prom night with
her legs spread but rather never keeps her lips closed.
You couldn't handle it.
I had you stating things you wouldn't admit
to anyone before.
It inconvenienced you.

This is the last poem I'll ever write for you.

So, don't worry about me muddling your life.
You made me feel beautiful.
I wish I could frame those moments in glass
so I could shatter them and cut myself...
Laugh and bleed, not care at all.
I hate that I wasted sentiments, pet names
and tender thoughts on you.

This is the last poem I'll ever write for you.
For the love of God, stay away from me.