This Is How We Make Poetry Out Of Our Wounds

I’ve been imagining your fingers entwined in hers against the dull glow of distant figures on the screen, your smile reflecting hers. I am silly, so I cry about silly things like you watching movies with another woman.

It is silly indeed to think I stand a chance against the fantasy parade of her smile. It is silly to write poems which taste too much like regret on rainy days like today but there is too many empty coffee cups littered across that table we bought together. I am running on too much caffeine and heartbreak.

It was fun playing house with you until you destroyed my heart.

You know what’s not fun?

Wanting to burn every piece of furniture you ever touched in this house.

And even if I’m left with ashes in my lungs and no place to sleep but the cold floor, I would still choose that over being haunted by your memories every time I enter a room.

I can’t sleep anymore and the coffee isn’t helping but alcohol doesn’t settle well in my veins anymore. It reminds me too much of the drunk nights we spent laughing about your terrible dancing and my inability to teach you any better because I couldn’t stop giggling.

See I could pretend something good came out of you leaving, I am bleeding metaphors every time my pen touches paper.

This is how we make poetry out of our wounds, this is how we call it art.

But you were my best friend and I don’t have anyone to tell all my stories to anymore, no one to sing along with in the car.

No one I want to kiss so much I could die.

No one whose touch makes me feel like my heart is escaping my ribcages.