We used to have a love.


I used to write poems

about the colors of your eyes

with a stomach full of butterflies.

But now I write words

about the voices in my head

and how I wish I were dead.


You used to promise

premonitions of coffee shop dates,

with lovely, meaningless debates.

But now your voice rumbles

like thunders, storms, hurricanes,

like a monsoon, an eternal rain.


We used have a love

and the stars sang of us,

and how our love was so wondrous.

But now sorrow escapes within

and purple clocking bruises fade

back to shades of caramel skin.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741