When she saw him face to face their eyes met and brushed like birds’ wings. Everything was wonderful, she knew that he was beginning to fall in love with her. She felt wildly happy, felt the warm sap of emotion being pumped through her body. A cool, clear confidence deepened and sang in her. She scarcely looked at Dick but she knew everything was all right.
No one can rally around a woman who must scrub floors and pots all day. Pity her, yes, but not rally to her.
If an angry mob of people show up at your door one day,
I just want you to know I didn’t send them.
I never told them your name
or even your address for that matter,
but they could all probably find you
using the descriptions in my poems.
They would follow the trail of shattering glass
and know that you still had my heart with you,
they would follow the sound of love letters being torn
and know that you read what I wrote you, every single line.
They could even chase the smoke
and find the house I told them I burned.
Ignore them when they say I still love you,
my poetry spells out different things to different people,
and ignore them when they say I am not only broken,
but still breaking. They don’t know that this is healing for me.
They don’t know that I am writing your name on paper
in my own blood so that I can get it out of my veins.
The more I seal the envelopes with your name on my tongue,
the less of you that will be waiting in my mouth.
This isn’t about me missing you,
it is about me getting rid of you,
and soon you will be gone, I promise.