I don’t want to write poems. 

There’s something so… cliche

about writing bad poetry after

being in love. 

Something so pretentious. 

And I’ve lived without pretension

—or being in love—

until I met you. 

So here I stand with my bad poem. 

With my $40 t-shirt, 

my $80 mom jeans, 

my $15 glass of “cheap” wine

—which I really can’t recognize from the not-cheap wine—

and my hyper stylized bed-head hair, 

all so I can pretend to be an 

artist with a good eye at thrift shops, 

and an I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. 

I’ve never liked poetry. 

I used to roll my eyes and call it elitist. 

Partially because I could never understand it, 

but mostly because I could never really feel it. 

I’ve cycled through partners faster than the songs on my playlist, 

and with less care too. 

Sure, I’ve known heartbreak, 

but only the really devastating kind, 

like when you’re eyeing a piece of food and someone else eats it, 

or when you can’t afford those new shoes, 

that kinda look like your old shoes, 

but aren’t the same ‘cause… 

~you know?~ 

And I certainly never wanted to write it, 

because those whispered “I love yous,”

that vulnerability I could never admit I had, 

those awkward sex moves, 

uncomfortable cuddling, 

dinners burnt so badly we had to throw the pan out (twice), 

and lazy nights where you were an image of perfection 

in cartoon patterned pajama pants 

and I a nightgowned goddess, 

were just for you. 

So I didn’t get it. 

Until I got it. 

So I guess now comes the bad poetry. 

The mourning of you through verse, 

the sad, angry, quiet, screaming reflection. 

Remembering the okay times we had together,  

that I’ll romanticize to be the great times we had together, 

that I’ll eventually forget altogether. 

Now comes the separation, 

the splitting of you and I, 

the division of our things, 

the boxing up of memories and reasons I fell in love with you

for me to unpack when I’m alone at night and need a reason to be sad. 

So I don’t want to write bad poetry. 

But I guess for now I will.


Caitlin Marceau

Tioh'tia:ke / "Montréal"