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I remember the days
                 I used to wake up
                          And beg the ceiling to
                                           Fall down on me.

Now when I wake
             I beg the world
                      That I may have more days
                                      To talk to the ceiling.
I have sent my love
A letter
In a sealed envelope
On a wooden boat
Due West
Moving slowly
In the fading light
Gentle currents
Leading it
To die
With the sun
And enter the River of Styx
In as much
Turmoil and tyranny
As it configured
In my soul
With all the anonymity
And repression
It encountered within
My life
Which rendered me
To be a lady
That looks on afar
Into the distance
Knowing that
All the love she ever wanted
Was always across the hall
And in the warm arms
Of one so near
Of one so
For someone
Like her
Isn’t it bizarre
To tell yourself everyday
Who you are
I was never allowed
To have feelings
That prevented me
From doing what you wanted

And because I could see
Your pain
And you could describe it
So much better
Than I could my own
I could see you needed my help

So I took my pain
Which seemed to offend you
As it was not expressed in words
(And therefore not as immediate as yours)

And I hid it
Beneath the false floor
Of the back drawer

So now
When someone
Is incapable
Of sacrificing themselves
To help me

I see it as a form of betrayal
Instead of a healthy boundary

Oh, what have you done to me?
As I lay my head on your chest each night
I wonder if Adam’s heart beat the same way,
When Eve pressed her ****** body against his
Both of them dreaming - secretly- of heaven.
I wonder if Isolde kissed Tristan like I kiss you;
Drinking from him, as if their passion
Would douse hell’s fires instead of fuel them.
I wonder if Paris looked at Helen the way you look at me;
As if the world started and stopped in her eyes
And everyone’s fate hung from the curve of her lips.
I wonder if Samson was as trusting as you readily are
When Delilah tied him to the kitchen chair
And cut his strength away from him.
And as we drift off to sleep,
Hearts beating in (almost) perfect time,
I wonder if we are as doomed
As history’s great lovers-
If tragedy and true love are as intertwined
As we are between my sheets.
And while I know my dreams will be full
Of Prince Charmings that look like you,
I can never remember if the endings,
Always slipping away like sand through my fingers,
Are written by Disney, or the Brothers Grimm.
I don’t even want you.
I just wanted to reject you.
"Would you like to be mine ?" He questioned with sincerity.

"I would, but before being yours I'd like to be mine." She answered.
I carve words into the palm of my hand
And sometimes the blood
Seeps enough onto the page
To form a poem
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