Three minutes was all it took.
My opposition halted.
My voice shriveled,
My muscles tensed,
And I stood still.

Poor me.
Weak me.
But I’m so strong, I thought.
I’m so outspoken, I thought.
But no, I just waited.
Patiently.

I apologized.
I APOLOGIZED.
For how uncomfortable it felt.
How inconvenient it was.

Three minutes.
Three. Minutes.
Most would laugh that that’s how long it’d last,
But for me,
Oh, for me,
It was a ******* eternity.

Every time you kiss me, you leave me
And keep me waiting, waiting
Months, years until the next sweet brush of lips.

The hands halt and the sweet ticking of my watch goes silent.
Nothing to be done.

I won't wait for you anymore.
If you ever show up, you'll arrive to a lonely company.
Every time you kissed me, you left me.

You said, "Don't hate me",
But I hate you so much now.
I ******* loathe you.


Downright pitiful
For robbing me of the chance
To say I Love You.

I've overheard the harsh remarks,
Glossed over the callous words,
And picked up on every acidic subtlety.


But silence is the greatest insult you could ever give me.

I wore black and he wore blue;


We were really just a walking bruise.

I feel too much lately,

so I've started self-medicating again;

It may be enough to curb those **** cravings.

Your words, weighted with authentic affections,
used to send my heart ablaze.
Now they resonate as sweet old lies,
which wring my heart out to dry.

My love wasn't enough for you;
Like your faulty reciprocations,
the ink will melt then vanish into nothing.
Oh, how this smoke will send me into a new high!


We'll go out the same way we went in:
A crisp spark that ignites and engulfs ever so swiftly.

Playing hide-and-seek between the sheets,
you'd always find me.

Now I rummage through the linens,
searching the confines of the single bed.

Sometimes it's best just to roll over, fall asleep,
and not wake up until your return.

Goodnight, and sleep tight.

She sets the pistol-like object down,
returns to the wound with a cotton swab,
and fixes a pretty little gem in place.

"$60," she says, and I wince;
not in reaction to the fresh wound,
or my lightened wallet.

But rather at the fact
that no pain can relate to
that of my ******, ruptured heart.

i spent too many ripe summer evenings
chain smoking on my rooftop
all alone, thinking of just you
and how you hate my cigarettes