Not An Apology. 

I made a copy of my keys for you. 

Learning how to say sorry in a lot of silence. 

Made an encyclopedia set out of between your lines, 

Profound promises I still refuse to keep. 

I keep all your love letters

Lest they let me forget

My body was your garbage dump, pink matter a boxing glove. 

No, if it has more than two words

It’s in a clear plastic box in my closet

That matches the one I keep 

My sex stuff in,

Perfect masturbatoty set. 

I’m looking for settlement 

But we never ironed out how divorce clauses

Don’t cover still dreaming I’ll wake up in your room. 

Lungs gather moss when damp with your dew

And I can’t imagine a summer in air conditioning 

And your knuckles have met new people’s jaws

And when did we let it get fucked up?

When did you decide to read this poem?

Can you chart it on a linear timeline 

So I can compare it to my stretch marks? 

Did I ever tell you 

You’re still my heart, 

I just keep you in a box–

I guess I just did. 

How is your brother doing?

Are you better at sleeping sound?

Too many questions for someone who

Thinks so little of what I have to say. 

But I am springing up!

Maybe one day I’ll grow enough to wrap around

Your trellis,

The fingers of your left hand,

My own neck. Fold this into your wallet

Or replace the poem I once framed for you. 

It should inspire some emotion 

That I am still dying from your love. 

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