I have hurt you so many times that it no longer shocks me,
like the sting of ice water gradually fading into numbing cold.
If I could tell you anything, I would say that I’ve always wanted
to peel your sweaty body from mine like a Band-Aid,
but then again I’ve lied so many times that whenever I open
my mouth, it sounds like I’m telling the truth.
You are the third love that I’ve condemned
to nights spent with only a half-full wine bottle and a wilted
bouquet of dandelions for a companion, like a hanged man
sent to the gallows. But out of some form of need
for redemption, if it’s any consolation, all the parentheses
I’ve written out since our breakup have looked like apologies.
The way they cling to the paper makes my palms
want to play hopscotch with your heart,
and perhaps this is not the most safe of habits, but if I were
to drop your heart like a wine glass and it smashed,
just remember: when did a breakup become
about keeping something whole
instead of shattering it?
