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.