The crinkled pages crumple under my fingers
as I ball them up, one by one, and wish I had
a match to make them unreadable.
Fiercely I rip them, but not fast enough
And I am here with a page of a first kiss to remind me.
I cry and push the tears away and I’m angry that I have to
keep wiping my face to be rid of yours.
With my words I claw at you, hoping my words
will dig into your chest the way you dug into mine.
But I know that you have thicker skin
than I.
An empty diary rests in my hand
with balled up pages in circles
surrounding me like a moat
Tears and fury
blind me from seeing tail lights
red through the dust flying in my face.
But I have felt it as I throw the pages
in the angry river
watch them float downstream
and meet somewhere to tell the story
that brought me to you in the beginning.
This poem was written in the late 90s.