I am shaking on the ground of my bedroom,

realizing it is two years until the age

you wanted to marry me. 

I am in the front row of a show,

knowing that if I heard this song years ago,

I would have thought about you. 

Thinking about you takes effort now. 

You no longer pour out

when I open my mouth.

I am in the doctor’s office, biting down

until I taste rust when she mentions 

antidepressants. 

I am figuring out which parts of my personality

are mine and which ones I created

to please you. 

I am burning every poem with your name in it. 

But I’m still holding on to

some of the letters you gave me. 

I tell myself I’m not sentimental.

I tell myself it is to ensure I do not forget

the early warning signs. 

I’m not sentimental.

I’m just afraid of throwing away

every burning thought

and starting a fire.