Dear Misery,

Isn't it funny: how closely Love and Hate
Twine 'round the rosebush?
Hate chokes the petals while Love,
Love is cut by the thorns
and wipes tears from the rose's eyes.

Isn't it interesting: how you never wiped mine?

You were (are?) an insidious lover,
but I adored you all the same:

Hours I spent, on the bathroom floor,
crying your name with tears of blood
that formed in my eyes
and splashed onto my wrist.

I made memories with you,
there. 

But tears don't water flowers
(They're much too salty, you know)
and so my petals wilted.

You said you didn't like the way they looked:
"Faded and droopy"
So you slapped me, and kicked me
once I fell.

I simply kissed the ground
by your feet.

Well not much has changed,
except you're screwing other girls now
(and boys).

Hadn't you enough of me?

Or was my sorrow not cooked properly —
Was it not profound enough, filling enough,
to sate the empty abyss
of your appetite?

I remember how you liked your midnight snacks.
Three meals was never enough.

And wasn't my devotion satisfactory?
No — exceptional?

Hell, I wrote you poems
and tattooed your name on my arm
and promised you forever
and always.

Selfishly, you ask for: "One more chance, please."
A quick look into your eyes
and I forget myself.
"Okay."

Is this what addiction feels like?
Because I've forgotten what healthy looks like.

You place me on an island,
all for yourself;
I can only assume everyone else, not me,
is on drugs — a constant,
euphoric high.

And it's dangerous:

I'm trying to forget you,
but every time I feel a little sad
I think I hear you knocking on my door,
and I answer.

So I went to my therapist; she set me up on a blind date.
His name is Joy.
It went alright, but in the back of my mind,
I was frightened
and forgot to enjoy it.

Sure enough, you were jealous.

You waited until I got home, at 12 a.m.,
to gave me bruises
in the form of long-forgotten insecurities
and failures.

I can't leave you.

And anyway, Joy won't ask me on a second date;
I heard he's shy.

Maybe that's why I let you kiss me on the lips
when I woke up this morning
(they were still tender from the back of your hand,
but I tried not to wince):

I'm shy too;
you asked me first.

I remember that day: you flattered me
into speechlessness
and so I giggled instead, as schoolgirls do.

(I was only sixteen.)

See, I thought when you said you had a thing for roses,
that meant I was special.
But I'm red, and you wanted a rainbow,
a bouquet.

Babe, all your rainbows keep fading
and you have to pick new ones.

That's why I hope your next blossom
isn't so young and vulnerable
as I was.

And I hope when you're done with them,
they still remember how to laugh.

And to love (themselves).