emo

Sometimes, when we're really close to people over a period of time, we come to see ourselves through their eyes. We believe them. And then one day we realise, and we try to break free. But the damage has already been done. Their words will stay with us. Always.

(I'm not having an emo day, by the way. I just wanted to explain the poem.)

(P.S. I have also been wanting to use the word emo for some time. I only learnt it a couple of months ago, and it amuses me.)

Emo Poem (not original title)

Name me then. No matter.
Your eyes have gone
from my reflection.
This letting go
defines me now.

And it's only roots.
Beginnings. Beneaths.

So indeed I might have been the one
who kicked up rotting leaves
around you; who dug away
wet clumps of earth
and turned them over in my hands
as if to form and reform -

But you and me,
we're only roots and broken glass.
Compost. Fifteen years.

I imagine then, your critical eye.
Those words of yours
grow up around my ankles
like a myth:

Seven years bad luck
for breaking you,
for breaking away.

No end to your mirrors now.
Even in absence.

(Double P.S. Although I was responsible for the poem, this photograph is neither of me or by me. I just found it on the internet.)