I don't want to write poetry.
I want to rip apart my brain
and feed it to my thoughts of decay.
I do not want to think of you,
because it is evidently clear
that you cannot be a constant,
So I shall extract you
(and all the thoughts, words,
and phrases too)
from my mind.
You may not enter this home,
I locked you out long ago.
Your little petty games
did you no favours,
tied tight to immaturity,
it looked too much like
not committed,
so I sent it all away from me.
In this case, not knowing no grey
is an advantage,
I would rather not choose to
sedate my appetite with your
little crumbs of "love"
(good morning, how are you?
every birthday).
It may take years but I won't forget
that I am not in the business
of decomposing yet.