I have yet
to truly find
a happy poet.

I live with all the women I've broken
in a cottage in the country
and in the evening we drink tea.
We talk sometimes of love
but mostly we speak
of how much we hate me.

I know you don't check on here anymore,
But I still can't post about you.
Because what if you should stumble across them someday?
How would you feel?
Would you miss me at all if you saw the pain I'm in?
Or would you keep scrolling the page,
Pretending not to even see it?
I don't really know, but you'll never see any poems I write for you.
Not that you care.