Maybe you’re used to saying goodbye. Maybe I’m used to being sad.
I sat down to write and all I could think of is how you don’t love me.
The thing you’d never say because it hurts too much. There’s your haiku – go.
Somehow you got your freedom and me. What was I? And were we worth it?
I have this feeling you won’t appreciate me until I’m not here.
But there was no blood, and that was so long ago, and he was a prick.
How do I let go of my life now when there’s no life for us later?
Moving on has been uneventful. No more than some unanswered texts.
I don’t want any part of what you’re offering. And that’s the best gift.
Yes, I loved you once and it’s wrong to compare, but he’s better than you.