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"The Truest Poem I Wrote About You" by Kat Giordano
 

The truest poem I wrote about you goes

fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you.

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The truest poem I wrote about you is a sponge

that gets bigger every time you touch it

‘til you’re shriveled-up and gasping.

​

It follows you around, listing

your blunders and shortcomings

in a frequency only you can hear,

and then hugs you in public.

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It proclaims itself the bouncer,

pretends there’s a password, and asks you

to beg from your knees for it. As you walk in,

heaving, hair still tear-glued to your face,

everyone there gives it a hug and a high five

and thanks it for all it’s done for this community.

​

Sometimes, it tells you nice things,

like you’re pretty, like you remind it of a painting,

like you carry some jewel within you,

but it is only plagiarizing other poems

already written about other people.

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Often, you say something funny under your breath

and my poem says it in a louder voice

and takes credit for the joke.

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Every day, it moves everything in your apartment

one inch to the left. It doesn’t know why

you keep bumping into all the furniture

but it thinks you two should go away for a while

and it can kiss your bruises while you sort this thing out.

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The truest poem I wrote about you knows “the business.”

The truest poem I wrote about you knows your needs

and has developed a product that will fill them, the shittiest

monopoly in fine print and lingo it knows you won’t understand.

​

But the beautiful thing

about the truest poem I wrote
about you

is that you’ll never get to see it.

Because this poem is best served as an empty threat,

a tease, the moment of eye contact we’ll share

across the podium now that you know it exists.

Because you’re afraid of this poem,

and you should be.

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