Lover

Depiction of a toxic relationship. Short lived and volatile.

His eyes belong to you,
a poisonous, hazelnut
stabbing beyond my soul.

When you persuaded me:
"You don't want more drinks?"
"It's not a big deal; we can just make out in the car..."

Society had already praised you.

After, curled in the rosy dust sheets,
I said:
"You seemed sad. You seemed like you needed it."

I was right, of course. I could already smell the charm's rot.

Father's wood rot...

Cherished friends, aiming for your demise.
The illusion of children you'll claim to care for.
Denial about your worst self, even as thirty beckons.

I know all of him. All of you.

Your hands are a delicate sandpaper,
wearing down the flaws you hate
caressing the jolie-laide architecture.

I often reflect on the worst of your remarks.

Combined with your penchant for flowery language,
and lovingly misogynistic dictionary
there is one more man you admire:

Bukowski.

His poetry always grated me.

It warps beneath my nails,
just like the prison of your affection
many women still claim he's 'romantic.'

Finally, I grace you with a vital gift:

Accountability.

Lies don't come easily to me.
And I don't enjoy spinning them.

All of your folly, failure, and addiction laid out:

Concise.
Honest.
Shameless.

As you had once described me.
As you know I'll always remain.

I gaze down at the pictures of you
skin peppered with cinnamon red
inky, thick hair wrapped in lockets

You know the girls will still come,
for now. For a few, good years.

But what use is it?

Petrified they'll claw at 'your' riches,
merely inherited.
Every path: ironic, bare.

Is this what lovers do?

Beg to touch me again,
while asserting my inferiority.

Circling my neighborhood,
like some pathetic piranha.

Claiming me when I've left,
trying to mark your territory.

Is this what lovers do?

Your number is still blocked,
and has been for several months
with little resolve on my end.

The insults wash over me,
a comforting reminder of
the salt you rubbed in ancient wounds.

Ocean tides lift me up and over,
cleansing the shallow gashes.

Hands pressed to my chest,
eyes closed in a silent prayer
the spinning world rids of you.