look at your phone. again.
again. did you see the time?
did you hear his voice?
did you scroll through your
nonexistent pictures together?
who are you? you used to be a whole person.
did you replay all the softness?
all the dirty texts,
did you hear them in his voice?
do you always hear his voice?
are you even a whole person?
you don’t want to be bad ass.
you’re a liar:
you want to be broken by this.
it is romantic
to be flayed in public and private.
it is a dirty image in your brain.
you have been taught that
self-flagellation is the only correct way,
for women. you listened. good student,
good girl. good for you.
it is epic to turn your insides out,
to suffer in public. it is religious.
you are a martyr for all the lost causes,
all the lost chances
to turn a horrible person
into someone you could love. to love
a horrible person, who might not even
be horrible. might just… not want to love you back.
you are the reincarnation of
st. jude. check your phone again.
you’re still this person. that song,
that song still echoes its way from
the confines of the radio in your shit car.
welcome to heartbreak, jude. welcome
to loving people who don’t love you.
what is martyrdom, anyway?
is it cognitive dissonance,
or cardiac dissonance? i love you,
but i know i should not love you,
do not want to love you,
do not want to have loved you.
it is two contrary things existing in your heart,
you stupid little shit.
check your phone,
nothing might have changed.
but it’s good to know.
it’s what martyrs do.
Photo credit: Katie West on Flickr