umustcreate:

There were days that you would write poetry
on the back of receipts, on napkins from lunch.
There were days that you would drink too much
and write poetry onto pavements with the bile
from inside and it took a while to find a point
in between the two when you could create and
destroy, both on the same day. You wrote beautiful

words and gave them away to strangers, sealing

them with a lipstick kiss and they’d walk out

into the world with a part of you tucked into
their back pocket. There was rhythm in everything
you did, I read the receipts and even your shopping
was exotic, imagining the cashiers sighing at
your presence breaking up their day. They didn’t
know that you’d go home and let the painful ink
drip as it ripped a part of your soul. You thought
it would hurt less if you disposed of it when
you were done, but somehow you never could.
I found your shoebox full of scraps of paper
when I cleared out your closet, you are gone now
but I will keep your words. 
You are writing poetry
for different strangers,
I heard.