I Want to Create Something Else

By Madison Whatley

My sixth-grade teacher, Ms. Beeber,

once told my class, Wait


until you fall in love

 for the first time—


you will write so much poetry.


I hate that she was right

because I can’t write anything


that isn’t about your arms.

I can’t be with anyone


who doesn’t look

like my recurring dream.


If I could time travel,

I wouldn’t want to see you,


knowing how you’ll unravel,

but I would go back and tell


Ms. Beeber to shove it.

I’m too far gone now.


I can’t look away

from the destruction


long enough to unpack

the suitcase waiting


on my ex’s floor

and then repack it,


still unsure of where

I am going.