The day you left, I cut my hair with the scissors we trimmed
the thorn bushes with. I’m not saying you wouldn’t recognize me.
What I’m saying is that I’m not the same girl you loved.
I’ve finally stopped looking both ways before I cross the street,
and today I’m dying my hair because this suit of skin is getting too
comfortable to live in. Do you like my lipstick? Red is something
our love never was, you know: loud.
I never wrote poetry before I met you, and I’ve started using words like
‘once’ and ‘used to’ and ‘was’ to describe what we were, and maybe
this says something about me, but the other day someone asked
if I’m in love and it took me every ounce of self-control not
to mention how I’ve started counting the number of steps from the
bedroom to the front door.
I would’ve kissed you. I would’ve drawn blood.
I would’ve loved you with a love made of megaphones.
They say you can tell someone’s lying by the way their brain looks
on an EEG. I keep telling myself I don’t miss you, but we both know
I’m lying through my teeth: my anterior cingulate cortex lights up like
a firefly. The other day I was told to stop saying sorry, so
here’s something I’d never thought I’d say: I’m not sorry for loving
you, and I’m not sorry for bleeding. I’m not sorry for swallowing