dear him,

before i start, let me say that this isn’t a love letter
it’s a heart message
sent via my heart strings to
you and
that i am not struggling to
word this not-confession just so
you know how much i don’t care about
the us that could be
if you opened your third eye and
i listened to my sixth sense
of direction is skewed
like i've been spinning dizzy circles
until my skull
fractured on the hard wood
floor that i slip
and slide on when my feet are in rainbow
toe socks
but you need glasses and i lost
my extra sense in the car crash of
’98 on christmas day and doesn’t that just
figure that our red station wagon
now had rose upholstery to match the mat
maroon paint job my
uncle did free of charge after
the silver corroded

so i won’t ever need you like i want to
you still can’t see through the metaphors and similes
i throw to the wind
knowing it will whip them in your face

sincerely—not
love,
the girl