by Alison Driscoll

You hurt me – 

Past and presently.

Blocked now but your thumbs up on my selfie

Still glares at me like a middle finger.

And the ones in my hallway – 

After adorning me with flowers –

You aren’t even smiling.

And Vans™ to my debs?! Seriously?

You couldn’t try smiling?

For a long time you were my poetry

When I was fooled by your arrogance I mistook for charm.

And for a while you were my writer’s block, 

Because you tainted it.

You said I wasn’t, nor would I be, a poet. 

Who were you to say what I couldn’t be?

I saw you for the first time this week.

The first since you told him enjoy your sloppy seconds.

And I froze. And I fussed at my fringe.

And then I said fuck it, and fuck you too. 

Now that I can digest our toxic concoction 

Maybe you’ll give rise to an anthology

Just to prove to you I can.

You are my poetry now again,                                                                                                                                     

Though the truth doesn’t rhyme so well.