Carry on soldiers, and we'll pretend we don't notice you; the hollow shell/carcass of a wasp rotten black inside the window. Forgotten.

I'm sick to my stomach thinking of the rotten disappointment I'll become.

I feel the ties that bind us tighten, and bound our hands together as we crash into each other, and my love is the anchor that held this ship, and now pulls it down, churning, groaning, and bending in the middle. My hands on you go from desired to expected to pushed away, like a child treats their steamed vegetables.

I empty out, becoming the shell of what is a full man.
I empty out, becoming the shell of what was a full man.

Either that or I don't think much, anymore.