The first person who broke my heart
is no different than the second,
is no different than the last.

They are part of every poem,
and the little bone-holes from the gnawing.

They are the missing skin.

And the place where it healed.

Thick white lines that said goodbye to people.

They are prongs of the forks I climbed like ladders to get out of the places
that they dropped my body.

I only loved one idea wholly,
it just had many faces.

When the rubber peeled around the edges and my lovers faded into flaws,

I said goodbye with blood.

But my last goodbye – was all of it.

I took all of my blood with me.

And I stepped on them all on my way out.

 

 

 

 

 

Prompt was to write about the first person that broke your heart…