The white color of your hair glares in the window,
unforgettable and undeniable,
it turns me inside out.
Your lips reach your cup with eyes fixed,
black-painted fingertips typing away.
I wish that latte was full of rusty nails,
ones that would scratch your throat
and make you choke.
But here I am
making mountains out of mole hills.
Back when we sang and drove through the snow
the touch of your voice kept me warm.
With one hand on your thigh and one on the wheel,
I saw forever in your eyes.
Being loved by you was a piece of cake
but you spit me out.
I was a pill too bitter to swallow,
And you cried like it hurt.
You proved I fall in love too easily
and I hate you for it.
“Thank you for leaving,”
my eyes scream through my tears.
My feet take off,
just slow enough for my eyes to stay,
long enough for yours to meet mine.
Through a shameful and soggy haze,
I beg you to stay away.
Genevieve Swanson is a senior at DePaul University, studying Theatre Arts Directing. Although she is mainly a playwright, she likes experimenting with new forms of writing. Her position as Head Writing Fellow at the University Center for Writing-based Learning encourages her to continue to explore and grow as a writer.