You Don’t Deserve the Happy Buddha

Please explain what I did. I’m begging you. What did I do to make you change your mind? Please tell me. I was so happy. You made me so happy. I felt so comfortable around you. I could be myself. You made me feel so beautiful. What happened? Was it me? Did you meet someone new? What made her better than me? Was she prettier? Thinner? Did she have a better smile? Was she less shy? I bet she is magic with people. Did she speak more poetically? Did she use larger words? Does she smoke more weed? I wanted to get to know you more. Why didn’t you let me in? Couldn’t you see I would have tried? Why didn’t I deserve a goodbye?


I hope you realize what you lost. I hope you see what I was worth. I hope you wake up a week from now and miss me. I hope you miss me miss me miss me. I want you to regret what you did. I want it to haunt you. I want you to feel this pain I feel. I want you to hurt.


When I’m more than what you could’ve ever imagined, I hope you taste my tears.


Why You Felt Like Home (And Why I Moved Out)


Building a love from the ground up:

I first fell in love with the land. The way you were at first sight (your awkward presence, the sensitivity that made you so different).

Constructing the floor plan was like building paths for myself in your thoughts. Imagining the interior and exterior of our connectivity (finding out your fears, where you want to be in 20 years).

We soon began the construction that would form our foundation. We were finally coming together; our love was being built from the ground up (we became close in a new way; how strange it is to think we felt so at home together).

Then came decorating and nurturing our beautiful new home. Our memories took over every corner of our minds (laying in bed remembering, laughing at the awkwardness that once existed).

We were comfortable in this home we built. Our lives were interdependent on the other (I needed you when you came home, and you needed me so you would never be alone).


Watching a home fall apart with time:

Annual repairs were necessary. Fighting was no different than changing the bed sheets (what do you mean you’re leaving? I’m sorry I am this way).

Slowly our tastes changed. Redecorating a room was nothing like the beauty that we once made (Who gave you these morals? What have you done with yourself?)

Cracks in the foundation started to form. I didn’t know if they were worth fixing (the memories became so painful, they reminded us of a better time).

The walls started to sag under the rain. I couldn’t stop crying when I looked at you (who are you? What have you done with the person I loved?)

The windows broke and winter was here. Every time you spoke I felt cool air (why are you so inhumane? You used to be so good).

I left our home we built. I couldn’t save it from destruction (you were comfortable with who you were becoming, and I couldn’t stay to watch).

I’m More Like a Force

No one hated it  when I would announce “I need a cigarette,” more than you.

You hated the way they made me smell. You hated how I would smoke three in a row when I was sad. You hated that something influenced me more than you.

You once said to me, “if I could quit, so can you.” And I tried; I always tried for you. I wanted you to be proud of me.

But now that you’re gone, I love them more. It is as if each cigarette is a “fuck you” to all the times I tried to mold myself into something for your approval. For anyone’s approval.

It turns out I am not made of clay, and I will never be what anyone wants me to be.