Think, think, think

I think about writing all the time

I think about it so much that no writing gets done

I want to write about things that hurt me

Or that are hurting me

People that hurt me

Or that are hurting me

Right this very second

Even though in all likelihood

They are not even thinking about me

I have become a footnote

An anecdote

Just some girl they decided to use

Fuck around with

Feed their ego

Every now and then

For years

Throwing words around like love

Feeding me poems

Like Wile E. Coyote dangling carrots for Road Runner

Like Lucy holding the football for Charlie Brown

Watching

As I fall for the trick

Yet again.

I think about writing about this all the time

I think about writing about this hurt

This manic cycle

Of adoration

And abandonment

I think about writing about these men

This man

That I keep letting in again

And again

To hurt me some more

But I don’t.

I don’t want to write hurtful things

About these men that have hurt me;

Instead of nailing the door shut

Instead of turning the page

I leave the door open the slightest crack

I get stuck on the same page

And return the book to the shelf

Unfinished

Leave the story without an ending

Fight the universe

Give in to what is known

Even if toxic and hurtful and

Never quite right

Just to escape

Into familiar flesh

That is not my own.

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