A Stranger Poem by Belle Violet

I can't write
for you
anymore.
I don't know
who it is I'm
writing for.
The words
used to pour
down into
this keyboard,
and I'd pound them
all out with
such force.
To me,
it was for you,
the man that I knew,
to remind you
the worth of our love.
To remind you,
despite flaws,
you were always
enough.
To show you
our future,
the effort
I'd take
to get there,
to have what
we'd always
dreamed of.
And I thought
that you
dreamt it, too.
That's why
I put it
all down
for
you,
thinking
maybe
it was
only fear
and hesitation
that had gotten
the best
of you.
And maybe I
could find a way
to bring you back
to us
if I
opened up to you
and showed you
what could happen.
That guy
I wrote for
would understand
what I fought for,
and my words
would paint pictures
in his mind;
of everything
that was running
through mine.
He would have read
all my questions,
silently
answering them.
He would have
digested
the tough parts
and done some
reflecting.
Because he'd know
those words
were my heart,
etched into
a lit screen
at dark.
He would have
known
how much effort
and how scary
it was
to explain
and, then,
just
wait.
He'd have been
right there
hanging onto
those words
because of
what
they would mean.
And I really thought
you'd be thinking
about that and
their meaning,
That they'd
make you
feel
something,
That they'd
have you running
to fix this.
That you'd know
we were
far too
important,
you'd miss us.
But, that man doesn't exist;
he's proved that
through
his nastiness.
He's only said
he's thinking
but hates me,
he's only stalling
with the excuses
he's making.
He's focused on the past,
and not fixing things,
because, really,
he's focused on some
dead-end party girl
he's always
always
and will always
be chasing.
So, I can't write
for you
any longer.
I don't know
what
I'd say to
a stranger.