A fragmented Story
“I am my own best friend and my own worst enemy.”
When I look at her, all I see is fractured glass.
Fragments her litter floor until is all know.
of my she I
Pieces of the
girl I once danced with
girl I once rocked to sleep
girl I once—
I begin to pick up the shards of her
I am not careful,
I want them to cut me
to scar me
to tarnish the skin
she once cared for.
I toss them away carelessly,
so carelessly that—
they clash against each other, breaking more.
There is one piece I can not bear to lump with the others.
I see her/me/us standing alone in a park,
We said, out loud, that we knew the way home.
W e d i d n ‘ t
Why did you have to be so damn independent?
All I see is what could’ve been.
torn out yellowed pages clutter my bedside table.
I used to envy the girl who drew hearts above her “I’s” without physically cringing.
I tried writing love
but the words slipped off the page.
They blended together into a puddle of ink,
the letters unrecognizable to an untrained eye.
I morph them into sentences as my bed sheets warp into the
I turn the disconnected letters into bedtime stories.
I escape in the curve of them.
I imagine them as the friends I never truly identified as mine.
I wonder if the words knew how alone I really was?
My mother reads the torn love letter that I didn’t burn in time.
She tells me it feels like I choked
on the words
and spat them out unevenly
onto the page.
Her heart would simply fail if she knew I addressed the letter to