I can’t eat the food in my fridge anymore.
We bought it together, so really it’s our food.
But it doesn’t feel right to eat it since you left.
And so instead I open the refrigerator and I stare at it for a few seconds.
Then I close the door, and I listen to the rumbling in my stomach.
But the rumbling isn’t so bad, compared to everything else.
I grabbed my yoga pants out of the drawer before I went to class.
I put them on and I walked into the studio.
As I sat on my mat I realized with a pang that they were the pants you bought for me.
I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before;
You kept them a secret from me for so long.
I always get compliments when I wear them.
“I really like your pants!”
Thanks, my boyfriend … ex-boyfriend, got them for me.
Even the oil I put in my hair smells like you.
I always thought it was funny how you used it too,
But you were growing your hair out and I told you it would help.
After it all, you cut your hair off.
You told me it was a mistake, that the hairdresser messed up.
Even still, I mourned the loss of all that hard work.
You told me you had made a mistake too,
But then you took it all back.
Even at the end you couldn’t tell me why,
And so I guess I’m stuck wondering.
And now I’m caught in a place between,
Part-longing, part-anger, part-acceptance.
Acceptance, acceptance, acceptance.
The food in the fridge started to rot.
I looked at it everyday and I didn’t do anything about it.
I could have offered it to my roommates,
But I didn’t want them to eat it either.
This is wasteful, I thought, ashamed.
What a waste.
“Too bad he wasn’t a bad guy,” one of my friends said to me,
“That would’ve made this easier.”
Too bad he’s everywhere I look.
I go to campus and I feel this overwhelming need to rip my clothes off.
I’m wearing the sweatpants we bought together,
And that sweatshirt you said I looked cute in,
And those boots I showed you.
If I take it all off, maybe I’ll finally be free.
And so I go home and I do just that.
But I leave on my shirt,
Because it doesn’t remind me of you.
And I need it, one more layer of protection.
And there I am.
But it doesn’t work,
Because you’ve been in this room
And laid on this bed,
And you live right down the road.
And so I wrote this poem instead.
Because I don’t write poetry.
And if I’m doing something that isn’t a part of me,
Well, then it’s not a part of you either.