I am gathering up the words
for what it means to be—
what it feels like to be—to be what?
Lost?
Left?
Hurt?
Used?
Betrayed?
Mistaken?
The words I want to say to you are ugly—
they contain a meaning that opposes love.
The words I want to use
are the antithesis of love
because there is no more of it in me.
I want the words I feel to grow
wings
wheels
weight
I want them to steamroll your stupid lunch,
infect your stomach with angry butterflies,
to make you feel sick with guilt
for telling me what you told her
and her
and her
and her
and her
and there are probably even more hers—
interesting hers—
and that should be all I need to know
to get on with things,
to go back
to what can never again be normal
because you’re the kind of man-scum
that…