I think its cute
how comfortably you sleep
curled up
inside your own apathy.
Should’ve known you would sear.
Empty on the inside,
Yes you are
and I’m a bit too old for imaginary friends
Guile in the smile and make that toast to never.
This Déjà vu is traceable;
Could’ve sworn it’s a place you
said you wouldn’t take me to
Dissent cancelled out the light-
I couldn’t maneuver between your shadow’s past
It still lingers like hang over(cast).
I can’t contain what is pliable in my aftershock
So I trembled
When you put the “Her” in hurt.
Extinguished my sun
In silent treatment.
You might call it collateral damage;
Even your voice rings with the sound of Latin haughty
As shit bleeds out your mouth like
“Why don’t you write a poem about it?”
So…
I did.
Maybe that will stretch out the twilight-
Maybe that makes my dysphoria predictably sterile
Or maybe-
I just martyr words for the fuck of it.
You’ve grown flagrant in your fantasy,
hold your breath and it might never end.
I felt it-
you traced the paradigm of heart failures
with your lack of hesitation.
Now I’m strained around empty prescription bottles
Thoughts anchored to my tongue
will never express
how the nausea in my skin writhes when you’re close.
Maybe it’s the glance of a life forgetting itself
That you only show when you feel like you might not be good enough
But that’s not to be pushed on anyone else
Especially when you never had a will to fight
your self proclaimed weakness.
I feel plenty of shame for being fooled once,
But I just wish, that you hadn’t proved them right.
Trust me, you don’t need a horizon-
You’ll set in this stilled vodka.
And in the neglected months, I would be the chaser.
A poet inside of me believes that you are the inspiration unleashed
A man in me believes you are gamine delusion
I believe you
When you say you’re sorry
I’ll be waiting for never, very soon .
