You asked me why I started writing.


I write scenarios in my head that I will someday play out.

God, Puppeteer and puppet.


And the tides shift the way I want them to

And the weather is the way it’s supposed to be

And people love me the way I want them to love me.


Men look at me the way they look at Marilyn or Audrey


or, looked.


you never die once you’re written down


And my career is what I want it to be

When I write.


I write about places I’ve been — and how I wished they’d turned out


I write about you, and how we stopped talking,

but that’s OK

because I’m twenty different things here

and you’re flipping burgers.

Does that make me an asshole?


No. It can’t when I make the rules in my head.

I write the rules.


I’m not an asshole.


You might be.


Maybe I grabbed onto you too hard

Like in fourth period

Your leg when I drew different sized penises on it


Maybe I held on to you too hard

Too soft when you wanted it


Wherever you left to

The story continued for me

to write you the way you were supposed to be

The way you wanted me to be


Like the way I write in my twenties looking at the cars and city lights

Like the way I write to forget and to remember

All at the same time.