i guess when you’ve been writing the same journal entries

with varying feelings, but the same scenarios

in the same type of notebooks

about the same person

for most of your young adult life

you should probably stop criticizing nicholas sparks

he chases tired cliches until they are dead upon his page

you’re chasing a muse that got sick of living on your page but not in your heart

the muse is not your friend, do not think otherwise

the muse never did

the muse had it easy

and packed light

made a quick get away, and left the door open.

its shit lays scattered— its marks on your walls, pacing scuffs on your floors, wilted flower petals swept into your corners, sweet echoes long dead

a drowned butterfly floats at the top of the pot of tea for two on the table that has gone as cold as the coals in the furnace that never got a chance to be embers

it’s awfully cold,

but you have a match hidden under your tongue

“fuck you” is too acidic to swallow

strike against the lump of tar in your throat

fill the room with your anger, its flames licking every mark off of the wall,

scuff off the floor,

there are embers in the furnace

there are embers falling around you

dance in the embers, kick up the ashes, and open the door so they follow he who left them behind for you in the first place

no need to say good bye, no one can hear you.

fill the empty space with catharsis

wash your hands

and begin again.