(really this is a shitty poem, I think I’m just journaling poetry to sort shit out)
I hocked your ring this morning.
I couldn’t wait to watch it pass from my hands.
I don’t know what I spent the money on–
cigarettes, gas, magazines to study;
anything to keep my mind busy.
I’ve read four novels and written
umptine poems since you left.
Between paragraphs I say
‘fuck you’ and other such things
and I drive around a lot listening
to Adele, crying. Me. I’m that woman.
When my plan was to be on the other side of this–
I was to find someone first, and tell you gently
that I’m sorry but I’m happy and there’s
nothing I can do.
Your texts contain ridiculous, uncharacteristic
exclamation points–from the guy who never laughs
in hysterics like our daughter and I do.
the ‘i’m sorry you feel that way’ only makes me feel
so much farther behind.
When I entered the pawn shop I liked how dirty
and dusty and abandoned it was, I liked
handing over my ring without flinching,
handing over that diamond queen that
glittered like snow, the most beautiful
thing I owned, remember how I cried
the moment you got down on your knee
reciting the poem you wrote asking me to marry you–
you invited my family and my grandpa out
to our house, you must’ve been so nervous;
I couldn’t stop crying. I didn’t know until then
just how much I loved you.
I didn’t even barter–it was a quick sell.
Did I leave feeling emptier? Sad?
I don’t even know anymore,
I just left, another part of my life
bought and sold, gone, over.