We hereby dedicate tonight to every guy who said they’d leave us if we changed our haircuts,
to every text messaged half-insult that made our stomachs shrink as we bit our tongues—
we are in the parking lot as the sun sets because of an intense need to be artistically destructive,
to take over any word that was painted here because of what we can’t take back.
Heart shapes have been painted over in black—
there is no fury like that which resides in a can among so many empty hands.
Call Lowe’s our creative sponsor,
the splint to our fractured egos,
This is the only way we know of to demonstrate that things are not the same as they used to be—
a year ago, they wanted to talk to him, I was blushing;
days ago, this rock looked differently—
maybe now we can claim the power to change our surroundings,
to display what this place really looks like to her,
a shallow X marking the spot of false futures—
will not affect us any longer.
We own these bones.
These dead cells are ours, baby, so back up.
My index finger has been numb for hours from the effort it takes to force the existence of a masterpiece.
We hereby dedicate these boulders to everyone who tried to throw them at us.
We hereby dedicate these hearts to ourselves alone.
I hereby dedicate tonight to whatever it takes to get his name out of your hair;
if I’d been doing my job, he never would’ve made it there.
So name him bubblegum.
Name him brick road that only led to illusion;
I have a lawn mower for every forget-me-not.
I have a poem for every day that tastes like ashes.
I have a bonfire for the fabric he tried to put over your mirrors;
we are not in mourning any longer.
Even though tomorrow smells like spray paint,
we have made reality conform with feeling
in the image of a heart in half where you used to sit—
I have a color for every name I want to call him.
Immortalize it as many times as you need to:
we were here. We were here. We were.
We aren’t anymore.