i live there because that is where i left myself last
that girl—she is hell-bent on never getting married
keeps ten journals to sketch ten cities that aren’t home
says her favorite day was sunday and has written
fifty different poems about a boy with freckles across his nose
her memory, truthfully, was never as bad as she thinks it is
she calls herself self-aware more than she calls
her friends for help
says she is too young to understand love, pretends
she doesn’t like romantic dramas and draws carelessly
on her face with dark brown eyeliner;
she still thinks it widens her almond eyes
that girl
she does not love you at all
would rather dig her grave than admit that
she cares about you, that she actually enjoys
listening to you ramble about your father
she only thinks about you maybe twice a month
would rather write more poems about the freckled boy
than admit you’re more than a friend to her
i live there because
i’ll admit to liking cheesy romcoms and to that
my favorite day is actually wednesday
i am not that girl anymore
and it’s easier to pretend i like sundays than
pretend i didn’t just write a poem about you