I wish I could hate him
That's what the poems would say
If the poets were honest
Because it's too hard
I don’t have the energy
To be Scarlett
Nor do I have
The sensibility 
I can’t help my heart
And it rarely helps me

But the poets will gather their will
And their quills
And find a quiet corner
Or perhaps a bench under a willow tree
To bleed their soul
And maybe
If they really meant it
They’d put rocks in their pockets
And walk steadily
Till they were over their heads

Dying beautifully 
And tragically 
Just like their poem said they would
Probably the daffodil
In their lapel 
Wouldn’t even lose a petal
As they flung themselves off a cliff

But me?
In a rage
My hair wild and unbound and unbrushed
Flinging crockery
And maybe a high heeled shoe
Spitting venom
So harshly
My throat would be sore for days
Having a plan that involves
Kerosene and a matchbook
From a bar called
The Wayward Thistle
And a knife clenched between my teeth

And yet
I remember to be a lady
And so I sit placidly 
With my sonnets
Writing about unrequited love
And bourbon cherries
Because peaches are overdone
Just like roses