You taste like whiskey
and cheap cigarettes.
You dress up all our goodbyes
with eight letters you don't mean.
You choke out the words
because you think it's what
I want to hear,
but "i love you"
sounds wrong with your mouth wrapped around it.
I'm on the precipice of something,
but it's not love.
The last time I felt like this,
I found myself alone on the subway
in a grass-stained wedding gown
with nothing but
crumpled dollar bills
and a worn leather suitcase filled to the brim with
green highlighters and poetry books.
Instead of choking out "I love you" back,
I kiss you on the cheek and you look
for an explanation
that you'll never receive.
I try to tell you without words
that I am toxic
and this isn't your fault.
I'm the one who is leaving,
and I can't help but wonder
how long it will take for you to hate me.
I can't help but wonder
how long it will take
for you to say my name for the last time.
