I want poems about the after.
Not about how he laughed
When you asked why he left.

Not about how his blueish, greenish, brownish eyes,
How they sucked you up –
And how were you supposed to not get lost in them?

No more poems
Where people say that they don’t know if they’ll ever move on,
Or if they’ll ever be the same,
Or where people say that they’ve become the person that hurt them the most –
The soul crusher, the breath stealer, this unattainable lie

Those are the transitions and the in-betweens,
And they never, ever have to be your endings
And you have to remember that the beginning seemed so good,
and ended up so bad
So maybe this bad, bad thing
could end up good.

So. Here’s another poem instead:
When he finally leaves
You have to stitch yourself back up,
Sew your heart back in your chest where it belongs,
Push in your veins and smooth out the muscle.
Shower over and over, like his touch is something you can wash off.
Pretend your tears are a detox for your love.

Healing is never clean or easy or blood free.
And there will be a point in your stitching
And your hands will freeze
And you’ll wonder if you should text him
Because maybe this time it won’t hurt maybe this time will be different, maybe this time he’ll say that he’s so sorry and he’ll take it all back,
And it will all be okay again.

But you know what’s true.
So you won’t text him.
You’ll tell yourself over and over again not to.
And once you’ve collected yourself, your hands will resume their stitching.
You’ll let out a shaky laugh.
Because this is the after.

And he can’t hurt you anymore.