You Were Not

maybe I wrote it, but you don't get a poem

by author

I write about all of my loves,
but you don’t get a poem.

You twisted something sincere,
into betrayal,
into damaged parts,
into a version of me I loathe.

I keep wondering why it was you,
why did you get to see
the cleanest version of my love,
while you destroyed everything around me?

Why did I love most freely
someone who was heartless,
someone fleeting?

I’ll write one for you,
but your poem will be small.

I won’t talk about the sky,
or the stars,
or anything pretty at all.

You’re the only love
I don’t need closure from.

Your love didn’t hold me up,
your love only gutted what was good,
left me crawling in my skin,
left me burned, cut up—
just because you could.

You set sail to my hope, my light,
the truth I can’t face—
how I should’ve sent you away,
put up a fucking fight.

I want to erase you,
save my dreaming for something real,
not have it wasted on disgust,
on a man so fucked up.

I see me screaming,
not at you,
just at myself—

he doesn’t even know you,
he can love anything,
if only you just give it up.

You were a number,
some kind of score,
he probably erased you long ago—

his passion was for anyone,
insatiable,
preying on the lowest ones.

Today I let you go,
even that last little voice
that swears she was in love.

You still don’t get a poem,
it was always just for me,
I’ll keep screaming
if it keeps you away from me.

You’ve been caught,
I see it all so clearly,
I was confused—

my love, you were not.

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