Women like me do not fall gracefully,
we stumble over our spines, trip over
our vowels, and collapse into your arms.
Our hearts are open books,
Russian novels containing fifty pages
on the way your voice drifts across
the telephone wires each night.
Our hearts are first drafts,
unedited verses about each and every
person we have ever loved: the stranger
on the subway, the girl who gave us a balloon,
the boy who stole our virginity
but not our heart.
Women like me will love you from a distance
of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed,
we will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible,
and when we leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people.
You gave me empty words
and I filled them with meanings and
made up an entirely alternate make-believe story
out of an embittering reality and I got crushed,
first when my fallacies collapsed
and then when I worried too much about you leaving
that I didn’t notice you already did.
by giving too much attention to what is false
and less to what is true—
this is how I lost you.