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I want my fucking heart back.

I’m sick of writing poetry

about how my heart escaped

and somehow found it’s way

into your waiting hands.

I keep writing

and writing

and writing.

Every goddamn poem

is about you

and I’m sick of it.

I’m sick of all these memories

that resurface

as vividly as the day we made them.

Every goddamn day.

Every time I write

I can never write about anyone else.

It’s always you

and I can’t seem to move on

from the way your eyes melted brown

when they met mine

or the bitter taste

you left in my mouth

from our last kiss.

You made poetry into something

I have no choice

but to turn to

in order to somehow

bleed you out of my system.

I hate it.

I hate that you’ve made poetry

a written account

of how badly I’ve fallen apart

since you stole my heart

and never gave it back.

I just want my heart back

but you’ve taken it

and I don’t know what to do

except write about

how badly I wish

my chest would stop aching

from the emptiness

you left

whenever your name comes up

in conversation.

It feels as if

the only way

for my ability to write

to come back

is to have someone else

steal my heart.

I just want my fucking heart back

but it seems

to have no intention

of ever returning.

— I never wanted you to become poetry. But in every word I write, all I find is you.