I wrote a poem for the end of our love because I realised no one else would do it for me. At 3am a voice forbade me, it told me not to write when no one will care. I suddenly asked myself where did that voice come from? and I thought it sounded a little like you. Before I met you, it was my job not to care and I was really good at it.

And in some ways I love the softness that came from taking you between my legs. I love what’s become of me, long milk-scented hair and a hankering for knitwear. And sometimes I think I care so so much, but when I step out of my sister’s little red car and gaze at the horizon I laugh about how none of it matters. 

You did this, you woke me up and for that I could kiss you one last time, but then I wonder if we’d fall into old patterns and I realise I’m already forgetting the sea breeze in my hair as I gazed at that horizon. 

I have a little place now which I know you’d love and I even bought some things with you in mind. How much of this marriage did I cultivate on my own? I told you I was ready for a divorce and I expected you to beg but all you did was look at me with eyes that had already seen the horizon and I was jealous.

And now that I’m here with sea salt on my lips I know that jealousy was warranted because it feels fucking good not to care and why did I not listen more to the girl who ran to New York? For even though she didn’t meet you she knew you so fucking well. 

And I wish you’d stand over me again with your hips agonisingly close to my face but I know that deep down I’d feel the fear you always made me feel. And maybe I blame way too much on you and use you as an out because I know I’m fucking insane. My father’s eye is still black from that night in WG and I want to cry every time I think of it because oh god, no one fucking understands do they? 

And I step out of that little red car, holding my cardigan tightly around me. I look out at the horizon and wonder how many other people got secretly married at 19 years of age? I wonder how many other people my age are this dead? I smirk because none of it matters and for that very reason I’m going to live to be an old lady.