I tell myself my own story
In the mirror
Whiskey on my lips
It’s how I make sense of it
Turning poetry to song
Letting the words
Disappear into my reflection
Until I can fall asleep on a Sunday
Nights like these are
Far and in between
I let them happen
When they tell me
They need to happen
It’s never done me any good
To pretend
Look, he didn’t love me in the end
But he loved me back then
Cowboy curtains
We were just kids
I turned off the music
So it was just us
And I hated his favorite movie
But I loved him
After, we ate Subway
On a Sunday afternoon
It was February
We were just kids
I never regretted it
That’s something
Isn’t it?
I shouldn’t tell you this
I am so far away
From that sixteen-year-old fool
That I can make up that she’s a character
A recurring dream I can’t shake
But it’s never done me any good
To pretend
Look, they didn’t choose me
But that’s not how my story ends
Fast forward past the healing
The processing, the therapy
The thousands of half-made poems
Like this one
You’ll see a woman who’s okay
More than better these days
But some memories will still
Slip beneath the skin
So I sip a little whiskey
On a Sunday
And let myself remember him
With Love,
Natalie