Dear Chris, 

I’ve learned to stop writing poems about you because they feel exactly like this- letters scattered from inside my skull said aloud and with perfect precision to the shower drain. Phantom pen and paper and envelope addressed to… no one. And isn’t that what I’ve been doing? Writing about no one? No one who made me feel like I had the star power of beautiful. No one who studied me for an exam that didn’t exist. No one that held my heart as a dirty secret behind the shadow of his own. No one who sang their love only to deny me three times over time over time over time, over…
   Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if you had the audacity to see me. To truly see who I am or even who I was. But that doesn’t matter. None of it does. When there is no evidence of love, how hard is it to convince yourself that there never was? You were never mine. No one never loved me.