I could write a poem that no one
could tell was for you.
It would be about sparkly purple
eyeshadow brushed onto sensitive eyelids,
Lucky by Britney Spears being replayed
and the foul smell of burning hair
being straightened and smoothed out.
I would describe how many times
you would restraighten and brush
through each strand of hair
as hot steam rises in the air,
the breeze flowing in through the windows
and the earthworms rustling the leaves
above the cold dirt on a chilly September night.
I could write about you slamming doors closed
behind you with such force
that the white paint starts to peel off;
just to escape the hollering for a moment,
the red inflamed eyes from sobbing
and your pinky promising
that you would never leave
no matter how bad it got,
as you walked through the dense fog
down the fragmenting road.