thankyou for giving me a breakup poem to write, isn't that something every artist needs in order to be real?

the first day we talked like lovers,
with hitches in our voices that meant we were being honest,
i saw you sideways lying on the bed and thought
you were one of the most beautiful humans i'd yet met.
and you talked about your scars,
and how you weren't always strong,
and my god, i knew i was caught,
i knew i was in trouble,
i knew it would hurt.
but i couldn't leave your room
until well into the night, and i drove home
so full of butterflies i'm surprised i didn't crash into a telephone pole.

the afternoon we got lost in the suburbs,
i traded my hesitation for a two-story house
with french doors, bays of flowers and succulents,
windows so tall that the light they stream in
is probably pulled from the surface of the sun itself
in folding flumes of golden plasma.
but when i reached for your hand to give you the keys,
to lace our fingers tight to show i finally
knew i meant what i said,
you would not take them,
me or the key to the front door that
i finally believed in for the first time in a long time.

the week before you decided i was not yours,
you held me like you loved me,
you laid beside me like you wanted to touch me.
and i knew you didn't, but i didn't question it,
none of me flinched or buckled-- though
i could sense it would be the last time we'd touch like that,
i was so sick and sad inside that i was just glad
somebody cared enough about me to pretend
that feeling all of me was all they wanted and
knowing the pace of my breathing was
something they'd been
waiting for.

the night i shoved you into finally breaking up with me,
into saying what i knew you'd been holding onto unsure
for two months,
i was too tired to feel all that bad.
even now there's not much aching other than:
"i was unlovable to the first person i'd ever kissed,"
and "it's a shame, she's seen me cry,"
and "every time i held her hand,
her fingers went clammy."
i think maybe you believe in god now,
but i'm left with just myself and
i don't much feel like worshiping me this week.

the monday after we became just friends,
i was afraid of falling again
for the pretty girl with the heartache made of daisies.
but i didn't and i breathed a sigh of relief until
i realized what that probably meant-
it's going to take me a week or two to
never want to touch you again.