It wasn't up until now that I realized how
much I haven't written those silly love poems
that I liked so much, put in so much thought for—
yet I just can't seem to write another,
my feelings all messed up, because maybe
I've gotten over you, maybe I've
forgotten how it was back then, to love
so deeply and genuinely that it erased
all doubt and the mistakes I was afraid to make.
It was just loving without thinking,
without asking for anything in return but now
I can't. I just can't seem continue on
more than I'm already just stopping myself
from puking out now from the thought
of writing another love poem.
Well, I don't know if it made me a fool
or some naive, pitiful human falling vulnerable to love
but I sort of knew how pathetic I was,
thinking of you all day and night.
But I never thought it disgusting or stupid back then—
now I see it, now I know,
it was really, really something I could
puke my guts and organs out for.
Though these words don't seem to mean a thing,
I just want to tell myself that I
might be a fool back then, but now I really just can't
entertain the thought of writing another love poem.
It just sends a feeling down my stomach,
then a burning sensation to my throat and a
nasty smell wanting to be let out and
oops, I told you so.