I will not serve this
weak heart.

The sap dries not so hard,  
sticky to the sweetness
of your maidenhead.

Stroked away like
paint peeling, yellow in its curls.

Your face never wanted
what it said to give.

And I was left
spinning spinning spinning
into what could have been,
but luckily,
is not.

That
I hope
you're sad

that you get that special kit out

that you look puffy-eyed from crying

that this poem ****** you the *******.

I just don't have
time enough
to suffer love
that's been poisoned
for years.

You ****** someone else.

"Don't say that, you're berating me!"

So I can't talk frankly about
what you've done? What
the **** am I supposed to say?

"Call it 'an affair'!"

But you let some other guy
*******
(more than once).
I can't talk frankly about it?
About how you let another man
enter you?

"*******!"

And the door slams.

And the car drives away.

And I feel a weight lift off of me.

And like that,
the switch
in my head
in my heart
is, somehow, impossibly,
flipped to "off"

You should have
hit the light switch
as you left, cursing me.

Empty me out
blood,
to the floor.

Open my veins,
hung from the door.