Heather Truett
Why Exes Are Exes
Once I stopped my car in the middle of a suburban street.
There was a blue-gray house out the passenger window
when I kissed you, and yes, I was the one
who kissed you. You were sweet, good, younger than me
and, let’s be honest, it was my wild brokenness
and all those times I made out with your brother
that attracted you to me, but I was bound
to break you, drop the carefully constructed image
you made of me and also, we all knew,
I’d probably kiss your brother again.
Now we are grown, and we each found our perfect
someones, and I haven’t thought much about you
in years, but yesterday you ranted your stance on “paid
democratic actors spouting ludicrous nonsense” about
gun control on my Facebook wall, and I had to tell you
not to call people idiots on my page, and here you are again
in my head.
I used to feel sorry for hurting you.
If my kisses had been bullets back then,
you might have been happier to know
I favor gun control.
Heather Truett is a writer, a mother, and a somewhat heretical pastor’s wife. Her credits include: The Mom Egg, Poeming Pigeon, Tipton Poetry Journal, Drunk Monkeys, Panoply Zine, and the Young Adult Review Network.
SUBMIT to What Rough Beast via our SUBMITTABLE site.