Seventy-Five Bucks

(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.