I used to make things for the people I loved
Now I rarely do
Nothing inspires me to
These days
I drew silly pictures and
Wrote loving things
On his wall
All the things that were true
Because I wanted to
Only to find it
Painted over
Covered up
Scratched out
Like he did with me
Like he hated to see
Something
I did out of love
Like he hated me
I could never scratch out his name
His notes (he never wrote me)
His time (he rarely gave me)
The gifts (he didn’t make me)
He is not human
Nothing sticks to him
He can take my love
Throw it away
And then begin
Again somewhere else
How can that make me feel good?
To know I was all in
When he was never even close
He’s always been a lifetime away
So far away
skin loves fever 