MSP to ____

Though I am often, I am bad

at being alone. I turn off the bathroom lights

& let the shower steam fill the room.

I draw a new face in the mirror.

I imagine my friends, when I don’t see them 

for a while, as little dots roaming a map. 

Being a poet means being far from the people you love. 

Someone I no longer love said that. 

My friend says he can’t do another winter 

in Minnesota, but leaving seems impractical.

I thought I could keep them all,

but I did not notice the door

until the room was empty.

There are people who don’t need

to hear from me to know I love them.

That’s what happens, I miss people 

when I know they are happy. 

It’s true: I’ve stopped drinking

because I needed it. I know who to call

in an emergency; that’s not the problem.

I could do it, you know, disappear

& be missed—there was, at one point, a boy 

who asked me to stay, asked if I could 

be happy there. I told him no. Told him 

I had dreams & aspirations,

whatever that means. Truth is, 

I think I could’ve been. Happy, I mean. 

Fuck me if I’m wrong, but I am doing 

some things right, right? What’s up, buttercup. 

Howdy-do, buckaroo. I could be happy 

anywhere, I think. I’m off again in the morning,

so I drag the suitcase from my closet 

& fill it with obnoxious colors, 

a green jumper, a yellow scarf, a red coat

I've been meaning to wear where it rains.