story

don’t

​don’t tell me, don’t tell me—

don’t tell me about her

for I am a writer

i can see every detail

in my mind, as clear as day

from the words of your stories

even in passing or nonchalantly

so please —

don’t tell me, don’t tell me
don’t tell me about your past loves

how you once told her there’s nothing

to be sad about

how she made you take my

long-forgotten letter off your wall

how she held your hands in hers

when you fought

how she was the one who

gave you that shirt

please, don’t tell me–

how she was, how she was
for you have many past loves

and that is fine, for we’re almost the same

so it should be fair

should be, but not really

because you’re mine

so don’t tell me the details of

how she was the one you loved most

how you were planning for

both your futures together

how you cried

when she broke your heart

how you still talk to her
because you’re mine, my love,

my heart is yours, but is yours mine?

we’re both still asking

it hurts to know the details

of the old hearts that were 

once part of you

my imagination creeps up on me

and a movie starts to play in my head 

a movie that is impossible to

stop, pause or forward

but forever rewinding

the image of you

you with them, you with them
so please don’t

because it slithers up like a snake

up my spine and into my brain

and burrows like a rat in the darkness—

the thought of other girls

holding my world in their arms

fills my eyes with sadness

and breaks my heart in two
i know its me, its me, this is my issue

so for this favor i’m asking you

just don’t tell me, don’t tell me

don’t tell me about all your “hers'”

all the details of your past loves

for a writer’s mind is sometimes a curse

i can see every detail

in my mind, as clear as day

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