Prose poem
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It was the last and quite possibly the most turbulent year of what had been a turbulent decade.
Because I cry on every birthday. Because the smell of my mother’s cigarettes still comforts me. Because I don’t really like my therapist. Because I can’t sing. Because I once wept at the image of wet roses wrapped in brown paper.
These streets breaths in silence
And writes us all in sentence
Forever chained in this corners
With code names,I swear you don't want to see these hideous streets come to live at night
We were eight years old, you a month and three days exactly older. It was sincere and green and exciting and, and, and—I had to move away.
(poems go here) They say, “Look at your life and look at your choices." I have chosen to stay single because the choices I made before had leaded me to a dark road. Being lied to just to get what they want and being criticize because I didn’t.
Today,
I won't think about him or flinch at indecisive butterflies or hate people or love being alone or be socially awkward or horrible at saying good-bye or be the broken poet piecing myself together by writing broken poems.
