you wrote a poem about me

in fact, you wrote a few poems about me, and they made me fucking cry. not because i was so moved, but because they made me think to myself, 'is that all it was to you?'

i know. a poem can be the product of just a moment, a fleeting emotion. something written in anger or ecstasy. i should know this better than anyone else.

but you've portrayed the weakest part of me, your completely unobjective view of how things were, of what i was to you, of what i was. period.

you wrote a few poems about me, put together a book, published it yourself and sent me a copy. sent me a copy with a note in it saying, "i hope you like it."

well, so far, i don't. so far, i want to say:

where were you when i tried to be there for you.

and more importantly:

where were you when i was sick.

i'll give it a few days. i'll give it a few days, and we'll hang out when you're in town on superbowl sunday. we'll hang out when you're in town on superbowl sunday, and i'll pray to god you don't ask me how i liked the book.