Darkroom

I Like Wilted Flowers

I write about heartbreak
as if
I've had my heart broken before.
As if she had pulled the organ
out of my chest,
set it on fire,
and beat it with a metal baseball bat
when all she did
was hand it back to me.
She only returned
what I had dropped over and over
until it shattered like
the fragile thing it was.
I think I left pieces of it scattered,
that's why it died over time.
The only person
who ruined me
from the inside out
was myself.
Not my mother.
Not the children
who made fun of me
until I broke down and lost control.
Not the teachers
who made me believe that
I was the problem.
Not the green monster
that I dreamed of.
Not the very few girls that I loved.
Me.
It was me.
But it is also me
who will repair it.
I always have,
I always will.