amicable breakup

there is red paint on my knees,
i crawled in it the last time that
someone told to "express myself."
like this was an 8th grade art class.
like an empty piece of paper
could hold all of the things that i wanted to say.

instead i squeezed a tube of red acrylic paint
onto the floor of your cabin, and used
one of your three spoons to make angry designs,
like spirals could hold all my feelings.
red, i figured, for love
and war
and strawberries
and the blood bank
and your shoe laces.

after you kicked me out
("no matter what you feel, you cannot paint on my floor")
i made a list of places i wanted to move.
(your backyard,
zanzibar,
cincinnati,
the biography section of the library.)
and essentials to pack in my backpack.
(a toothbrush,
two pairs of socks,
a set of watercolors,
flares just in case,
a pen.)

my mom always made me write a note if i went anywhere,
so this is my note, to tell you i'm leaving.
i don't think i'm ever coming back.