I’m done writing about you.

In the spirit of passive-aggressive stares

and comments from our mutual friends

and constant texts that always say

I love you, I have had enough.

 

You are not a star,

you don’t have a heart of glass,

you do not create home within me.

You never did.

It’s time for this to be over.

 

Next time you ask me

if we still have a chance

I will smile and look at him

because he has my heart now

and you, sir, do not.

 

Fuck the late-night manipulation

fuck the anger that rises inside

fuck broken promises, empty words

underdeveloped metaphors and

your assurance that you’re actually happy.

 

You are not happy,

I am happy

because insecurity rose from

your icicle touch

but now I have swallowed the sun.