Tonight's Poet Corner: Letter To My Ex-Boyfriend
Letter To My Ex-Boyfriend
by Belinda Roddie
There was never a better time for us to
separate: I think before self-driving cars
existed, I was watching our relationship
barrel toward a cliff without a driver. Or if
there had actually been someone in the driver's
seat, then they were probably asleep at the wheel,
dreaming about flying and then plunging
into a pit hotter than Death Valley during a
September heat wave. I think you loved me,
or at least what you hoped I could be for you.
You drew my potential out in chalk and wrote it
on glass pipes. We shared smoke signals
and carved private messages out of our mouths.
The swollen veins in your eyes never went away,
though I think they stopped pulsing so much.
It was like I was watching wires about to burst
from a power surge, and I really didn't want you
to short circuit on our way to the bowling
alley. I never got much better at that sport. I have
my own pool cue now: It's black and red, smooth,
like it can repel all the ash I collected from your
smile. I smelled everything on you, while you
sank eight balls into toothless, felt-gummed
gullets, and the arcade games trilled in Morse
code as if sending me a warning that I wasn't
exactly considering decoding. You told me you
didn't smoke as much as you used to, but you
still wanted me to give it a try. I knew that getting
stoned with you would be something that'd delight
you, but I was never interested. I've still never done it.
I also never tucked ecstasy under my tongue - I know
they call it the "love pill," and maybe that's why
you took it like a vitamin before we got into your car
and heard Kurt Cobain growl his personal eulogies
at us. It didn't feel different at first, how you made
our little world move. You cried for the first
time in front of me, and it didn't scare me.
You were more open to me that day than any
other day I spent with you. And I guess ultimately,
that hurt me more - you know, rather than the fact
that you were under the influence while driving me
on the fucking 101 in heavy traffic on a Friday. Just
the idea that you could only wear your heart on
your sleeve if it was sucking on molly. I never
needed that. I had already tattooed every emotion
of mine on my forehead, permanently. They're
still etched on my skin if you look hard enough.
Now that I think about it, your college wasn't too
far away from my childhood home. I know I could
have made things work, at least for a little bit longer.
You were eighteen and sketching yourself an actual life
map. I was sixteen, and I was only just getting started.
We never had sex. I never got to breathe in your natural
odors without the help of cologne or dusty T-shirts or
the cruel green lips of Mary Jane. I guess I wasn't
ready for the experience, though to be fair, now
I'm aware that I wasn't ever going to be ready for it.
The last time I saw you was in a Target. I was
wearing a red polo shirt that was too big for me.
You had blonde highlights in your hair, and I
wondered if anyone had told you that the Backstreet
Boys were so 1993-2001. Otherwise, you looked
pretty much the same, three years later. Somehow, I
always thought you looked better with a beard.
Which is weird because the person I'm married to
can't grow one; I guess I just really appreciate the
aesthetic of it, kind of like I'm admiring a fine arts
exhibit at the Legion of Honor. Yeah, in case it's not
already obvious as hell, I'm actually super into girls -
and no, it's not because of you. I evaded the feelings
I had for nine years, and I didn't say anything because
I honest to God didn't know. It surprised me as much
as it might surprise you, or maybe it's not surprising
at all, just like M. Night Shyamalan's tired cinematic
twists. I learned more about myself in five years after
meeting you than the number of diatribes I spewed
during our strolls through that same park ten minutes
away from my parents' house. Also, I wanted to let
you know, though you probably don't care: I'm sorry
that, when I went to prom with you, I kept talking to
one of your guy friends before we hopped into that
champagne-free limousine - mostly because I was
mad crushing on his sister. I think I loved you,
or at least what I hoped you could be for me. Turns out,
we painted each other differently than our self-portraits.
We used the same medium and colors, but it always
came down to the shape and form. When it got hot
enough, the oils ran, but there was still no comparison
when we revealed our canvases. I haven't seen you
in fifteen years. I'm glad we said goodbye before
we drove off that ledge together because I don't
think we would have made an appropriate
Thelma and Louise. I don't regret what we had: It
meant something. I got better at fighting games
because of you. I pretended to be good at pool because
of you. I think you taught me how not to give a shit -
it was just a matter of the execution. I hope, like you
scrawled in my tenth grade yearbook, that you got high
and also laid. I don't really listen to Nirvana anymore.
Sometimes, you can only enjoy certain songs when
you're around certain people. I still write. I know
how my stories made it all begin for you. I'm sorry
we didn't put together the most structured of endings.
At least nobody died, and nobody's heart was broken.
I mean, I hope I didn't break yours because it'd be hard
for me to collect the pieces from under the seats of
your car. Maybe it was never as mutual as I thought it
was. I know some people insist that I let you go, that
I stop bringing you up every six months or so at the
dinner table, or on a walk, or in another one of these
stupid poems. I think it's the lack of closure that does
it for me. You never got the chance to really see the
enby behind the curtain, and I was never much of a
wizard. It's like floaters in your eyes. Usually, you don't
notice them, but from time to time, when the light
hits at the perfect angle, your vision is broken into
tiny inkblots that you can't interpret. You can't claw
the memories out of your retinas. They just sit there like
space debris. It'd be really nice if we could meet for
dinner one more time, just so you can read the brand
new chapters of my narrative. I wonder if you ever
went back to that bowling alley, or if you still play
billiards, or if you still leave tire treads on the 101.
I wish I had kept your phone number if only so we
could catch up. There's nothing I can find of you
on social media. I guess you made the disconnect
pretty final. In retrospect, I think we actually could
have been really good friends. But I don't know
where you are. I don't even know if you're still alive.
I miss you. Please let me know if we're too separated.
by Belinda Roddie
There was never a better time for us to
separate: I think before self-driving cars
existed, I was watching our relationship
barrel toward a cliff without a driver. Or if
there had actually been someone in the driver's
seat, then they were probably asleep at the wheel,
dreaming about flying and then plunging
into a pit hotter than Death Valley during a
September heat wave. I think you loved me,
or at least what you hoped I could be for you.
You drew my potential out in chalk and wrote it
on glass pipes. We shared smoke signals
and carved private messages out of our mouths.
The swollen veins in your eyes never went away,
though I think they stopped pulsing so much.
It was like I was watching wires about to burst
from a power surge, and I really didn't want you
to short circuit on our way to the bowling
alley. I never got much better at that sport. I have
my own pool cue now: It's black and red, smooth,
like it can repel all the ash I collected from your
smile. I smelled everything on you, while you
sank eight balls into toothless, felt-gummed
gullets, and the arcade games trilled in Morse
code as if sending me a warning that I wasn't
exactly considering decoding. You told me you
didn't smoke as much as you used to, but you
still wanted me to give it a try. I knew that getting
stoned with you would be something that'd delight
you, but I was never interested. I've still never done it.
I also never tucked ecstasy under my tongue - I know
they call it the "love pill," and maybe that's why
you took it like a vitamin before we got into your car
and heard Kurt Cobain growl his personal eulogies
at us. It didn't feel different at first, how you made
our little world move. You cried for the first
time in front of me, and it didn't scare me.
You were more open to me that day than any
other day I spent with you. And I guess ultimately,
that hurt me more - you know, rather than the fact
that you were under the influence while driving me
on the fucking 101 in heavy traffic on a Friday. Just
the idea that you could only wear your heart on
your sleeve if it was sucking on molly. I never
needed that. I had already tattooed every emotion
of mine on my forehead, permanently. They're
still etched on my skin if you look hard enough.
Now that I think about it, your college wasn't too
far away from my childhood home. I know I could
have made things work, at least for a little bit longer.
You were eighteen and sketching yourself an actual life
map. I was sixteen, and I was only just getting started.
We never had sex. I never got to breathe in your natural
odors without the help of cologne or dusty T-shirts or
the cruel green lips of Mary Jane. I guess I wasn't
ready for the experience, though to be fair, now
I'm aware that I wasn't ever going to be ready for it.
The last time I saw you was in a Target. I was
wearing a red polo shirt that was too big for me.
You had blonde highlights in your hair, and I
wondered if anyone had told you that the Backstreet
Boys were so 1993-2001. Otherwise, you looked
pretty much the same, three years later. Somehow, I
always thought you looked better with a beard.
Which is weird because the person I'm married to
can't grow one; I guess I just really appreciate the
aesthetic of it, kind of like I'm admiring a fine arts
exhibit at the Legion of Honor. Yeah, in case it's not
already obvious as hell, I'm actually super into girls -
and no, it's not because of you. I evaded the feelings
I had for nine years, and I didn't say anything because
I honest to God didn't know. It surprised me as much
as it might surprise you, or maybe it's not surprising
at all, just like M. Night Shyamalan's tired cinematic
twists. I learned more about myself in five years after
meeting you than the number of diatribes I spewed
during our strolls through that same park ten minutes
away from my parents' house. Also, I wanted to let
you know, though you probably don't care: I'm sorry
that, when I went to prom with you, I kept talking to
one of your guy friends before we hopped into that
champagne-free limousine - mostly because I was
mad crushing on his sister. I think I loved you,
or at least what I hoped you could be for me. Turns out,
we painted each other differently than our self-portraits.
We used the same medium and colors, but it always
came down to the shape and form. When it got hot
enough, the oils ran, but there was still no comparison
when we revealed our canvases. I haven't seen you
in fifteen years. I'm glad we said goodbye before
we drove off that ledge together because I don't
think we would have made an appropriate
Thelma and Louise. I don't regret what we had: It
meant something. I got better at fighting games
because of you. I pretended to be good at pool because
of you. I think you taught me how not to give a shit -
it was just a matter of the execution. I hope, like you
scrawled in my tenth grade yearbook, that you got high
and also laid. I don't really listen to Nirvana anymore.
Sometimes, you can only enjoy certain songs when
you're around certain people. I still write. I know
how my stories made it all begin for you. I'm sorry
we didn't put together the most structured of endings.
At least nobody died, and nobody's heart was broken.
I mean, I hope I didn't break yours because it'd be hard
for me to collect the pieces from under the seats of
your car. Maybe it was never as mutual as I thought it
was. I know some people insist that I let you go, that
I stop bringing you up every six months or so at the
dinner table, or on a walk, or in another one of these
stupid poems. I think it's the lack of closure that does
it for me. You never got the chance to really see the
enby behind the curtain, and I was never much of a
wizard. It's like floaters in your eyes. Usually, you don't
notice them, but from time to time, when the light
hits at the perfect angle, your vision is broken into
tiny inkblots that you can't interpret. You can't claw
the memories out of your retinas. They just sit there like
space debris. It'd be really nice if we could meet for
dinner one more time, just so you can read the brand
new chapters of my narrative. I wonder if you ever
went back to that bowling alley, or if you still play
billiards, or if you still leave tire treads on the 101.
I wish I had kept your phone number if only so we
could catch up. There's nothing I can find of you
on social media. I guess you made the disconnect
pretty final. In retrospect, I think we actually could
have been really good friends. But I don't know
where you are. I don't even know if you're still alive.
I miss you. Please let me know if we're too separated.
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