I fell in love with the world that slipped through your fingertips, the one that curled its way through your crooked gap toothed smile. You seemed comfortable in my world, like you fit. Just like the way your fingers curled around mine when we were sitting in class and you thought nobody noticed, just like the way you casually leaned over and looked at my paper, so close I could feel your breath on my skin and I thought, for the seventy sixth time, that this is what it’s like to love someone.I can turn you into a poem. Wrap your body in words, run circles around your mind with my ribbon made of elegant prose and not-quite-there rhythm. I can turn you into a work of art; hang you on the wall of my chest like a Picasso painting. I can romanticize heartbreak and, when we end, as inevitably all relationships do, I can write you a mean breakup poem. You will become a monument, a reminder that I loved you once.
But me? You will turn me into another notch on your bedpost. I will dissolve in the cereal you eat every morning for breakfast. My name will be crossed out in your notebooks, the ink underneath bleeding through your best attempts to erase me the only proof that I was here. I will be just another girl, just another story you put on the back shelf and forgot about. I’d write a book for you, darling, but me, I’m replaceable.
They say don’t bother falling in love with a writer because she will capture your every word on paper, turn you into a shrine and dance circles around your memory, making magic out of you forgetting to put milk on the list and having to eat day old macaroni and cheese. She will turn your flaws into just another place to kiss you. And when you leave, she will spend months questioning the existence of the sun, writing more and more pages about how you loved her once, how she loved herself once.
But I think they should say to the writer not to bother falling in love with anyone. Your heart is this animal, a fragile beast. You will fall in love twelve times before breakfast. He won’t turn you into a monument and praise your memory; he’ll just forget to put milk on the list and never pick his clothes up off the floor.
If a writer falls in love, she’ll just end up writing another breakup poem.