Scrolling through Twitter is just about the only thing I do aside from schoolwork. Part of the reason is because of the stories that I come across on my timeline. Someone will be posting about their family reunion, their best friend or their heartbreak and it’s interesting to be able to see life with another set of experiences through another perspective. The poem below is my interpretation of someone’s “thread about my ex” on Twitter; I hope I did their feelings justice.
I hate you. I hate you so much:
Your hair is stuck in my drain;
Your gel clutters my sink and your toothbrush confuses me when I go to use mine.
I hate you. I hate you so much:
My sheets smell of your cologne;
My drawer is filled with your clothes;
Your initials are carved onto my desk.
I don’t want to live like this anymore.
I never thought I’d utter those words.
I don’t want to see you anymore in the posters on my walls or in the eyes of our dog.
I never thought I’d want them out of this house—not home.
I don’t feel comfortable within these walls:
Your song haunts my stereo and your strum strikes my guitar.
This feels like a burden:
Your photos and videos and voice memos, they all fill my phone.
My spotify only plays your playlist and I’m sick of it.
I loathe. I hate it.
Two months have passed and this week’s mail has arrived. I hate it.
I eye the small envelope and I know what’s inside. I hate it.
I rip the flaps open and pull them out. I hate it.
I want to rip them to shreds, but I love them.
I loved you when you got them. I hate it.
I don’t want to use them, but I can’t help it —
You might be there. I hate it.
You’ll probably be there and I want it – to happen.
I’m going to use them.
I drive up to a parking spot and walk towards the entrance. I hate it.
I am pushed to the middle of the crowd. I hate it.
The stage begins to light up. I hate it.
I hate it because this was our band: we met to their song that’ll probably play during the encore.
I hate that you bought us concert tickets for our anniversary. I hate that our song is playing and you’re not standing here next to me. I hate it.
I hate that the concert’s ending and you’re nowhere to be seen, but I take out my phone.
I take out my phone and take a video of the rest of the performance because I finally have enough space on my phone.
The concert’s done and I linger. I linger until the arena is empty and the staff is asking me to leave. I linger until I’m absolutely sure that you’re not here, but I still don’t believe it.
I make my way to the parking lot. I sit in the car and watch the video on my phone that I never had enough space for.
I love it.
