What you have to get over

You have to get over yourself.

It's your fault, too.

Two people can make paper,

one can easily tear it,

but it's the same pain

that must wear this paper

until the edges bend and crumble.

The light is wavering and

the center holds long enough

for it to be the perfect shape

to hold within

a fist.

You have to get over her.

The smell of rain on that skin

when you bluntly pushed her aside,

and she, a newborn lark, complied

to your lips; she'll never

bend again.

You have to forget that

she likes to write poetry in pen

though you write

notes in pencils.

The letters, the letters

she's sent you on printer paper,

on impulse

impulses.

Clean, innocent, and

dyed it with love,

with permanence.

She loves permanence;

it means perfection.

You love pencils

and have a drawer full

of erasers.

She's not the only one

who will ever love you,

you

the selfish

cruel

arrogant

man

who broke her heart

and tried to break your mirror.

You will change

and so will the people who love you.

I promise you this

there will be a multitude of people who love you

and not one who will stay.

But you can't see this.

You can't see anything but yourself.

You have to get over yourself.

The End

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