You looked at me in a way that should’ve lit me up and, instead,  
I asked you, What changed? 

 Just to hear you say that the way you felt about me 
Wasn’t just now, that it wasn’t just this moment.  

You paused, searching for the right words,  
And maybe it was precisely in that moment that I knew, deep down,  
That this was nothing like the narrative in my head,  

That what you felt for me in that moment 
Was nothing compared to how I had felt for months on end.   

And I chose to not care. 

I chose to grasp on to that moment—no matter how fleeting  

And, in the end, it tore me apart.   

Because the discreet glances you shared with her last night, 
And the way you smiled with your eyes   

Was how you looked at me for a week 
And how you looked at her for a year.  

I wanted so badly to be a poem 
Because that’s all she ever was to you.

Excerpt from You Wanted Me to Be a Poem, So I Wrote One
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