What I am thinking when you say that I don’t love you.

 

I think about my writing. The poems, the stories.

67 poems have come from my feelings for you.

28 sit in my drafts folder, the remainder posted for everyone

to see.

Each one I can read and go back to the emotion that

bred each word. Moments of love, sex, and wildness

that would write a novel, crowding up space in my mind.

Not all of the thoughts are beautiful, some are abusive

and take some healing on my side, but that’s why I am

baffled by your accusation, surely- nothing but love can

make you cry 67 pieces of words scrambled together to

release the emotional hold, no longer in control of what

is written, only the decision to be open

 

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