Not all art is for display

i went to the museum
of all the things we used to be
to each other
and i felt the overwhelming urge
to dip my hands into all the colours
and ruin the paintings.

i wanted to drag my tainted
fingers across the wallpapered walls
in streaks of colours
so muddied,
they hadn’t even named them yet.

museum-goers are stupid —
they’d call it art anyway.

i go to poetry events
and listen to shadows
talk about broken hearts
and wonder if
stabbing a fork in my eye
will hurt lesser than
watching you call me
‘a friend’.

nobody’s called me by my name —
the way you used to —
in so long that i’ve forgotten
what is mine and what isn’t.

do you ever forget to
forget about me, too?

don’t worry,
the only person
i’ll ever tell
is the version
of you that loves me
in my dreams.

love is the storm and the
sea and the boat,
and all i am is an island
they still haven’t put on a map.

i could try to leave
but my entire world
is made of sand
and all i know how to do right
is drown.

please don’t tell me
you think about me —
you know what a mirage
means to the desert.

i’m going to try
going back to the museum —
maybe this time i’ll look at
the art as just art,
and not as you.