I know you won't read this
Your eyes will meet my name and take on the role of ignoring
They will do their best to avoid its presence
And eventually it will be a skill done almost subconsciously,
Forgetting me

I know you won't respond
If I ask you what happened
If I were to wonder aloud what changed enough to make you do the same
I'm not quite sure you even know the answer
And I'm quite sure I'll never pose the question

I wonder how it is that no one ever told you not to love a writer
Or worse than that, pretend to
These word-wringing hands belong to a body with a heart made of glue
Attachment forms if you get too close,
I am telling you that you did

It's clear that no one ever taught you caution
To be careful with the girl who cares much more than she should,
Who will love you more than you ever asked for
You crossed a line written in red and the footprints are still there

I know you won't remember
The way your lips met my forehead when you said goodnight or how the same ones told me I was beautiful
Your hands formed craters in my back and now I don't know how to fill all of the empty
I am used to an excess of space,
Of vacant but this
Is just too much

I know you won't understand why it is that
People like me always let strangers inside
We open the door without looking through the peephole
And take in whatever the wind blows with open arms
It is a mistake I am not sorry for repeating
You were just one of many

I know you won't read this
I know you won't try to
You will probably see my name and move on the way I probably should have already
You will laugh at my vulnerability like being bare isn't something that takes strength
You will remember my thighs, the unsteadiness of my laugh, the freckle I pointed out above my cheek, my warmth
You will hear my voice in the title
You will see the word poetry and immediately say no thank you
And I will continue keeping the idea of you alive in a language you don't care to comprehend

I know you won't read this
I know you won't try to
But if you do,
Know more than anything else,
I didn't write this for you
I wrote it for myself.

She stood by the window
Watching the rain pour down
It was as though each drop
That hit the glass and rolled down
Was a short lie
A number of those hitting the window
Before her eyes
Yet in felt as though it was raining inside
The drops left their physical bodies on the glass
And their souls proceeded to become one with her
The cold of the floor going through her feet in to her legs
The teacup in her hand is empty
She analyzes the beautiful blue pattern
Looks like something a sweet elderly lady would have in her cuboard
On the bottom it says "made in England"
A snort of derision and dry smile
As she turns away from the rain
She catches a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror
She shortly runs her finger by the deep wrinkles mocking her on her face
Age meant nothing to her, they were not enemies
She smiled at her age
It had no power here