Your Mother died
at only thirty,
when you were just
thirteen.

I'm sure you've always wondered,
and so have I,
whether you would live longer
than her.

Turns out,
you died at thirty,
too.

It's funny how quickly
people disrespect you,  
when you start realizing
your worth.

I said I could never be mad at you
but you pushed
until you made
me a liar.

The thing you begged for
and were gladly given
has turned
and you have bitten the hand.

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.