A poem about an ex

In that room, I was a cocoon.

Though you were there, wrapped around me,

I around you,

My fingers weaved through your course hair.

My fingers gripping at your red scalp,

I saw the red.

I pulled you closer but wished you’d just go away.

Because each inch you drew closer to me,

Each inch the gap closed,

My life squeezed out to make more room for you.

Because you had convinced me that I only needed you.

Even if you didn’t mean to, you built palaces in Oregon.

You built cozy, grand cabins where I would make art and you would save the world.

You cautioned against this to save face but everything in you begged that I stayed.

And as soon as I made a home in this world,

As soon as my fingers fastened themselves on your sleeve,

You shrugged the jacket off,

And insisted that maybe the cabins were best suited for someone else.