You look down as
tears rush down your face like a
waterfall into a river full of the
ghosts you’ve been
hiding. You stop speaking and
words rush through the
lobes of my brain trying to find a
rewind button,
some way to make this
disappear. When moving on
looks like those
mini flashlights you keep on your
keys, a small light at the end of a
fucking storm that uprooted your
entire existence, what am
I supposed to say?
No it’s not okay.
No it’s not going to be okay
But you

My heart speeds at the thought of
touching you more than it ever
did before because I don’t
want to touch you like
he did.
I don’t want to
provoke an image or feeling or
similarity of some guy who
ruined the smile you once had as
your own.

I want to throw a dictionary at his
temple so that he might
learn the meaning of
Maybe then he would
know what he did to you wasn’t
a gift wrapped in a bow. It wasn’t
a winning lottery ticket or
free shots at a local bar.
He took
you from me and left you on a
dirty street corner with only a
white sheet you used to
hide that night from

There’s only so long you can
hold everything in until your
insides explode and I’m there to
see it.

You exploded and it’s
his fault.
Now I sit here with
doubts and
regrets and
fuck I want to
kill everyone who’s ever
took any part of
I’m going to
collect those pieces and
put them together like a
You will be
whole again.

Published by

Nic Rasmussen

A Brooklyn-based poet who has a lot of feelings and writes about them quite often.

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