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.