Boy, I sat down to write word by word

Of everything that was as wrong as you.

But I thought of neat, ironed shirts,

And dinner over beer-filled noses.


This is the cry of someone who is uninspired

Of words that get stuck as they pour out of vomit

As I swallow more and more

Hideously and horridly choking on a pile of used rags.

These are used hands, boy,

Did you not see them at all?

I will enter a silly anecdote into a poem that isn’t even mine,

And expect you to understand?

I was sitting on a lit pavement,

And you too.

You look past me,

Into a teleprompter,

And told me you were sorry.

I melted in unison with the ground,

And became whole again,

Twisting to the mould that was your hand.

These are my insides, boy,

Do you feel how slimy they are?

There are pigeons in my room,

Those flutter despite being bladed several bloody times.

Has autumn arrived at your doorstep yet?

Oh boy, I am sweating from nights years ago.

I am waking every minute to my own tears.

Boy, my hands are shaking,

I am not stone anymore.

Oh boy, didn’t you sense me beginning to feel?


You’re a shuffle playlist of a singer

Everyone has listened to.

And I just keep wondering,

How the exquisite young boy I knew,

Became such a lousy excuse of a man.


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