You cannot write your heart out,
but you can come pretty close to it when you write poetry about the way he left with an acceptable goodbye,
but you wish he left without one,
because then you could hate him.
but you can’t hate him because he couldn’t love you.
every day I drive over the highway and see the ocean tossing and turning from the lack of the moon.
and every day last week the crows dipped down into the water and disappeared into the white skies
and I wondered when they would leave for home.
I wondered if they had forgotten where home is.
the crows left today.
but I am still driving on this highway,
always farther and farther away from a boy who doesn’t love me,
and I have forgotten if home is in chest cavities or worn out couches because lately home has been in soppy tissues and in the nightmares where I wake up screaming because I know the bed is colder without him.
I know the bed is bigger without him.
I know the bed is nothing without him.
But I cannot hate him for not loving me;
I can only hate myself for not being enough.