here lie all the sentences cut short by my indecisiveness

all the periods stapled on after words that weren't meant

to be the finish

i run my hands through frostbitten soil

and scrape my palms on headstones

where the bloodiest poems of mine are buried–

funny how each one is engraved with your name

and i will not apologize for writing about you

just like you will never apologize for making me

not because you aren't sorry

but because you don't realize that it's your fault

i didn't ask to be a poet

although it is my fault that i've let it ruin my life

i wish i could stifle the urge to bleed onto pages

i wish i didn't have to bury every sweet song

you had ever whispered in my ear

is this a love poem or an apology letter?

i can't tell the difference between them anymore–

mostly because i love you, but i'm sorry for it.