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I took & posted this picture when the reality of my then-relationship began to reveal itself. I was sad. Hopeful. Reaching for him, always. Trying so hard to be all the things he needed & wanted. It only left me feeling insecure, empty & depressed.

This poem is about that.

I wrote letters.

Letters that crammed together, wanting to fit into an idea but not knowing how to sound.

I forged realities with my words, created versions with my verses,

Pressed Send & delivered pleads in the forms of pride.

I begged. Without knowing,

In responding. Hell, in reading.

I put on leather, blood lipstick on my lips, black shadow around my eyes

Presented a statement as a question, “am I enough…”

?

I needed to question it though, so I am not ashamed,

Except for the images of sadness that peppered my feed -

Hungry masses, starving for empty eyes,

I am ashamed of that a bit, I think, or maybe it makes me sad for me.

I digress.

Over & over & over, & I undressed.

Danced in constriction, a tale of two bodies

Like a great work of fiction - authors:

It was you, it was I.

We wrote letters.

They were of love, they were of hatred,

Of all the things that made us great -

It was the same things that now bind us in separation.

Backspace. Delete. Crumbled digitally,

Documents in the nether, shredded like the beliefs that kept them together.

I write letters,

Dancing into meaning - 

Fingers tapping like a great raven

Not on a door, or perhaps The door.

But these are for me.

Poetry.