When he knocks on your door late at night,
and I know you’re lonely and vulnerable
because the darkness tends to
eat the light out of your eyes,
but do not let him in.

But when you open the door,
and the essence of him hits you
like the aftershock of a quake,
knocking the very breath out of your lungs,
and he tries to seem soft, and broken, too,
remember that he is not.

And when he tells you that he’s lost without you,
pull out the atlas from under your bed,
point to the north pole and then to the south,
and say “that is you, this is me”.
Do not believe his honey drenched lies.

But when your insides throb with forgiveness,
and believe me, they will throb
like a Sunday morning hangover,
reach down your throat
and pull out all the weak parts,
piece by piece, heartstring by heartstring
until you have forgotten
what the contours of his cheekbone feel like.

Remember, you must forget.