Wearing my words, she holdse far.
Fist aflame against her men,
as she stands in fingers and teeth
and ribs breaking skull.

But, oh...

How could less be more when
all that she has ever wanted
is writing this for her?

But oh...

If she only knew
all I've gone through,
skies of red,
and dreams of blue.

But oh...

In refrain like a sad song
that tears fall gently from,
is all that this boy has
for the night.

And so I beat my fists,
aflame,
on my pillow
praying my hair
catches fire.

Stagnant,
the waters polluted
by childhood nightmares
that crept about your head at night.

There are branches bending
in the marsh's breath,
weakening against
the fingers of the Sun.

I am not so arrogant as to think
I am the Sun in this metaphor,
princess.

No,
I stand in waters of my own,
dark like yours
where I wade through to you
where I pollinate your lotus,
lick your petals clean of dew,
and caress your fragile root.

All spun out like the chaff,
the fire breathing drags on,
clever little jots and tittles thrown in anger.

But nothing good ends well,
as the saying went.

I never wanted anything
but your happiness,
and I will not reciprocate the attacks.

I am not like the others,
and you know it.