I realize now you were pretending to love me.
And when I said I wanted to write
you reacted strongly, defensively
insisting I couldn’t just up and start writing
that I hadn’t earned the right.
I don’t remember if you really said that
or what you said
but I remember the smacking sound
of my dreams hitting the pavement.
It was such a familiar sound
to me by then
that I just acquiesced
which was easier, anyway.
But now I’ve recovered lost ground
And stand somehow, mysteriously, strong.
When I think back on what I barely remember
from that day almost exactly ten years ago
I wonder if you were threatened.
Because you are such a bad writer.
And I am such a good one.