Prose

XXIX

Wouldn't it be extremely funny if I told you that I used to write poetry about the way your hair probably smelled?

I don't anymore. I write sentences. Straightforward. No skipping lines. Stupid enter key.

Poetry was made for pretty things like fulfilled love and happiness. Poetry was made for pretty things. You are not pretty. You break skies and deteriorate clouds. You flash brighter than lightning and shout louder than thunder. You blow me away like storm winds and freeze me like hail. You are not pretty. I would be damned if I dared to say such things. I would be damned if I dared to downgrade you to such petty words. I would be damned.

I do not write poetry about you anymore. I will not shade over the pain you've caused with pretty skipped lines and rhythmic words.

You hurt me. And this is all I will say. No pretty poetry. You hurt me until my bones were ground into dust and my blood was on fire and my heart was melted and dry and it hurt.

I write poetry about pretty things. I do not write of you. I would be damned.

May 10, 2014 11:38pm