Untitled  by Sarah Doenmez

Untitled by Sarah Doenmez


On Colorado 2007


it was all so much more simple.
that’s what she would say, 
if anyone asked.
they never did, though,
so she writes it instead— 
dear whomever— on the back
of a label card, 
the kind that comes in the spiral notebooks
she used in grade school—
it’s funny how things change—
or, well, chews on her pen. not funny. 
ten years.
a snowball fight in february—
well, not funny but— but they will—
you know what I mean.
faces she can’t remember,
somewhere near denver—
i don’t want to— a lie. of course she does— 
and even though i know it’s not fair—
her mother’s gloved hand holding hers,
laughing and—
i can’t remain undecided because
i’m going to lose my mind—
crossed out. she already has. 
what can she say?
the same song plays in her head.
i’m sorry— erased. she’s not sure she’s— 
i love you— she does. rewritten:
i’m sorry—
she’s forgotten how to skate, 
now,
forgotten how to speak. 
but— i wasn’t enough—
she needs to.
needs to
tell them  
she— i
did this to myself.