the instructor said,
go home and write
a page tonight.
and let that page come out of you –
then, it will be true.
i am seventeen years old
and have no idea what
i come to class, do my work,
go home, repeat. i’m having trouble
trying to find myself like everyone else
seems to be doing.
i write, that’s what i do.
or at least what i attempt to do.
i’m more open that way.
my writing is my escape,
but it doesn’t always work
when all i seem to write about
i’m not over him, but it doesn’t matter;
he’s been over me since he cheated.
i loved him, i really did
and i just wish he felt the same and
here i am writing about him again because i don’t know myself alone but i know
myself with him.
he hurt me, he ruined me, by lying to me,
lying to me about loving me and he left me
in silence for months until he needed something to
entertain him again and he came back just to tell me he didn’t love me.
and here i am, writing about him,
when i was supposed to be writing about
me. but then again, i don’t know me without