I dismantle you little by little,
pick you apart piece by piece
as I edge you ever closer to the precipice.
Your curiosity is titillated
by the tantalizing nothings
I whisper to draw you near,
promises I never intend to keep.
I tease as we creep, and you have no clue
as to the depths of my nefarious intent
until the moment I lay my hands
on your chest
          and push.
Your hands catch, grasp tightly.
So I lean forward and gift you
with one last kiss
before I stare into your eyes
as I peel them from the surface.
Laughter pours forth
as I witness your fall
from high above.
I turn and walk away,
my deceit complete.

I'm the destroyer of your dreams.
I will sabotage us until
     there is nothing left to cling to.
And I will stand over
     our ashy remains,
Unable to contain my remorse,
     even though I walk through
     the pile left there
and leave bare footprints
     in my wake
     made from the soot of us.

"Write a poem," he says,
but what if there's no use
because all the best parts of me
are already used up
and I'm just a crinkled piece of paper
left to blow away with the wind.
I'm empty, nothing left
to inscribe on my pages,
no story remaining to tell,
and so I wait for a strong gust
to come and take me away,
anywhere, just away from here,
because I can't take this place anymore.
"Write a poem," he tells me,
but what if I can't
because my voice has been
taken away from me, and
I don't see a way to transcribe
what doesn't exist. It just isn't
possible, is it? So I'll sit here
and cry this ink onto my pages,
but to be completely honest,
I'm no longer attempting to create
a coherent story because I'm just
a used up, wrinkled slip of paper,
being thrown about without concern.
"Write a poem," he says,
but my words are all used up.