Love, We Need to Talk
a poem about kicking a decade long habit…
At Perry Monument, I threw out the last of your remains.
After a decade, I’m leaving you: no more roadtrips, no more birthday celebrations,
I won’t be holding you in front of the Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame.
You’ve slashed my lungs, emptied my wallet and burst my eardrums from
your screaming for attention to give you the power to take years off my life.
You consume my days, burn down dreams of a lakehouse in Erie.
I’ve met someone else. His name is surgery. I’m done putting him off for you.
My favorite livlihood stripped because of bodily malfunctions- legs not able
to hold my body up for eight hours. You never once made it better.
You’ve never led me to anywhere except an early grave.
So love, we’re done. No matter how many hours you beg to be held.
Your bags are at the door, the handle turned.
