We’re saying goodbye
And I guess it’s fine.
Defeated, I am tired of begging for love.
My truck and I stay stuck stalling
Twice weekly in your shared drive way. 
We’re waiting for you to move.

From the open car window,
You look relaxed with my departure.
Playfully unzipping my sweater,
Some singular sexualized affection.
But the zipper snags my skin
And I cry out “God damnit”
And watch your face change 
To something that feels like a wall.
And you say “You’re so quick to go there”

And all that I am is nothing
But an immediate reaction.
It isn’t pretty. 
We both know my mouth isn’t yours.
Constantly aware of my singularity,
We are both digusted that I am not you.
It would be a relief to say 
That I don’t understand
the point of art.

Samantha Ratcliffe