11/12

I never made my body
your Atlantis.
You kept swimming in the deep
hoping to entreat upon my virginity
like it was lost kingdom,
and it was your duty as a geologist
to reveal it to the world.

I have shed too much salt water over you.
I have shaken like tremors in the blue
because of the way you looked at her.
I let my insecurities twist around me like
seaweed
because I was not the girl who
gave over herself to you
in the backseat
of your rundown chariot.

You name your cars and boards
after a girl,
because they are the only thing you can
ride.

Listen,
I knew we’d never work.
I knew I was too ambitious and
noncompliant to be worth
any amount of your time,
but when I walked out to see
you kiss her in the parking lot,
it still hurt.

I become Atlantis overthrown when
I let the blood boil within me.
I shouldn’t drive when I’m angry.
And though I sped away,
it doesn’t mean I didn’t cry.

This is the last one,
with your name between the lines.
Looking back on it,
it was summer,
and you remain just a waste
of my time.

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