I am the romantic egotist: watches things collapse, so tenderly;
The vicious resentment for her whom I loved—who cares?
I grasp for her hair in the dark…but it isn’t there.
The cold and completely disappeared from here.
Music made is now muted; the chords all severed,
Like the wrists you tried before, but failed.
Keep the pictures to show me,
To show me like I’m impressed,
Or should be.
So just lie there and say, “This is fitting.”
This is real. Speaking backwards of terms,
My intended; I’m a home of cliché and sorry-forbidden words
said too early, too full of sex. She’s easy-lament.
Over barriers of things that we’re afraid to face,
You read deep into that; make hollow wishes
that you had me back, if my ego could ever
allow that. I am the scar tissue you can’t help
but share with others when asked.