By Amanda Jones
I’ve been sitting here trying to write a poem for an hour. It’s 4:30 in the morning and I have work at 8. But I just can’t find a way to make “You hurt me and I’m sad about it” sound poetic.
I keep thinking up ideas, but none of them are working the way I want them to. “I was an oyster and you stole my pearl, cracking me open and leaving once you got what you were looking for.” Or wouldn’t it be cool if I wrote something about how I was a flower but once you picked me I died? What do you think I’d be? Maybe in the beginning I was a lily, but now I’m probably a weed.
I paid a psychic $80 for her to tell me you weren’t the one. It’s kind of funny that I’m trying to romanticize my pain. I’m not heartbroken — I’m a melted candle, my wonderful scent burned by a blistering flame! I’m a broken bulb, my light gone, never to return! I’m a chewed up and spit out piece of bubblegum on the bottom of your sneaker.
But in real life I’m just bitter and angry and you suck and I hate you and I wish I didn’t want to write poetry about you. I would rather take my anger out in a way that “betters” me like you wanted. Should I get a gym membership? Smack around a punching bag and pretend it’s a physical embodiment of all of our wrongdoings?
I could pick up a new hobby like painting or crocheting or baking or photography but I’m sure something about you would come out in all of them. Then I’d get angry and destroy what I created. Sound familiar?
You’re a flat tire on a road trip, the sour milk when I want cereal, and the reason I can’t sleep when it’s 4:30 in the morning and I have work at 8.
You hurt me and I’m sad about it.
Contributor Bio
Amanda Jones loves horror movies, dogs, and Oxford Commas.