evidence surely exists
of the love i felt for you,
though it is not the angry texts
or torn bedroom curtains.

it is likewise not my car,
with "whore" scratched in the paint,
or the hole still in my wall,
that at the time was inches from my head.

nor is it the scars on my arms,
the tattoo on my shoulder,
or what you temporarily put in my belly
late one saturday night.

the real evidence is on my cheeks,
and countless used tissues,
an unwanted physical reaction,
just when I thought the pain had stopped.