For awhile there I wanted to be lost in nothing.
I wanted to be a part of the couch
& my fantasies come untrue.
I wanted to be a reality tv character
saying entertaining & crude things,
getting drunk & stupid, crying & calling back home.
I wanted to be the girl from a movie
with an inspiring title, looking romantically lost
with her eyes in the rain waiting to have
her inhibitions & dress torn off.
I wanted to be crushed grapes
& tears in a glass & my feelings at the bottom
of ice cream cartons. I wanted to be every cliché
of heartbreak until I scraped myself off pillows
soaked with my sorrows. Until I opened a window
& let the outside wink at me through the blinds.
I wanted to be my own private mess until
I gave up on giving up, until I not only
had but gave fucks,
until this state of being
left without telling me. My smeared focus
started to sharpen. This representation
of me was no longer fitting. This on sale version
of me asking to be worn & loved at the cost
of a lower value was a chapter
but not my whole story.
Once the map of all my thoughts,
you became just a stop.
A point to gather myself & move on.
There's too much I have yet to see out there.