you are getting on my nerves.
you dare bring the wisteria to my garden,
how they have sprung scaling the fence
like they had never seen the sun, these wanton plants.
I told love, please please come back. I put out a retraction,
announced to the world that I did not mean when I meant I am leaving,
no, no, that was printed in error –from my mind to mouth spoken in haste
even if truth rushes out like a torrential spring rain.
he left me again. But not before I left him first.
I am supposed to embrace this loneliness, bred from my visceral organs,
blood, bones, arteries, veins, cartilages, interstitial lining between my
childhood and today. Something must have happened, the therapist said.
Did you hear that April? It wasn’t my fault. Something terrible must have
happened when I was a child, a baby, a toddler, tween, teen — all of the above,
Even if I don’t know what that terrible thing was, is, done damage
It isn’t my fault that I am pathologically
lonely. You, cruellest month April. It isn’t my fault
that I begged him to stay when he never, ever, loved me
in the first place.