Two-hundred and Thirty-two: One Stupid Fucking Poem

He was right, you know.
He had the answers when you didn’t even want to ask the questions.
This makes me smile like bitter chocolate.
This person that you can’t stand made me sit down and listen.
He knows me better than you ever will;
he can turn my pages easily because I’m still looking at you.
I held the book for you to find me.
The torchlight to see me.
The dictionary to understand me.

He got me when I wasn’t even falling.
And he was right, you know.
Printing poems -proof of this summer- all I see is your stamp on everything-
in my careless flirt, my weak embraces, my inevitable footprints.
I see your name tattooed on the shield I thought I had finally shed.
And I hate it. I flat-out, unapologetically hate it.

He was right- I regret letting myself spew poem after pointless,
pathetic poem about something of such lopsided importance.

Tell me-
where is my poem? Huh?
Where the fuck is the poem -one stupid fucking poem-
that you have written about me? That’s what I thought.

He was so fucking right-
you are such a waste of beautiful words and eloquent thoughts.
It makes me sick.
The worst part is that I know I can’t
stop.

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Published by

Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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