When he talks about her, my heart tries to shell itself like a clam
to see if there’s any soft meat inside worth saving.
I’ve never even said a single word to her, yet the language
they learned together is one I’m forced to be fluent in.
Feel like a stained glass window that won’t let any light through
when I’m reminded that there was actually another woman before me.
And I know this way of thinking
is like catching the moon between your thumb and index finger,
like believing the sun is closer than it is,
but I’ve never been particularly good with perspective.
There’s always the lingering fear that he still loves her
still loves her like you’d love a slow bruise
that hurts black and blue but feels so good too,
like trees thirst for the acid rain that kills them.
I need to stop carrying this memory of someone I’ve never even met
around inside me like ambulances carry their dead bodies.
So give me a purple heart for this battle I’ve been in, this doubt,
because I’ve been wounded but I’m still breathing too.
here man i got the perfect book for u
with super-sturdy pages for your idiot hands