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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