• Why is it, that I can hate you more with each passing day
    and yet, when I see you, my heart
    has palpitations;
    rejoicing,
    reveling in your beauty,
    charm,
    talent…

    Your talent—it serves to do nothing
    but make you more insufferably arrogant
    and so painfully removed
    day
    by day
    by day, and thus,
    you are becoming nonexistent.

    I am nonexistent,
    invisible,
    imperfect,
    disillusioned,
    human,
    mortal.
    I never measure up to your impossible standards;
    your criticisms cut me to the soul.

    You may have no soul.
    It’s entirely possible.
    For how can you be so
    wrong,
    so stubbornly insulting my virtue?
    I am not Her.

    I could never be Her,
    She who stole your heart’s innocence
    (though not your body’s)
    and betrayed you,
    ripping out your heart and leaving it
    bleeding
    on the ground.
    She stepped on it with her Uggs
    as she walked to her new man,
    Seven jeans hugging her over-ample hips,
    Her extensions and bleached-blond hair swinging in the breeze.

    I’m a brunette,
    an hourglass figure
    that is losing sand faster than I can hold it in.
    Time slips like tears through my fingers as I watch you slip
    away.

    Or maybe I’m just pushing you
    to the brink.
    The brink of nonexistence is a scary place.
    The trees are green,
    the grass is soft,
    the air is sweet with the heady scents of sea and lavender that we both loved;
    breathing them in,
    deep into our lungs,
    then trading them, passing the bewitching scents back and forth between our mouths,
    our breath mingling,
    bodies intertwining…
    but you are not here.

    Here,
    in my heart,
    you’ll always be here.
    But at the brink of that imperfect world,
    as I cross over,
    I know you’re no longer with me.