He wants you to know that he feels wasted.
The feeling of ash in his mouth, tasteless, 

but the numbness he feels isn’t painless, just nameless.
He thinks you think yourself blameless but his hatred, though baseless; shapeless and aimless, reckless,

is tenacious; holding him in stasis. Sleepless. Wakeless.


“You took all that I had and spread it out like a selection on a cheese board for all to see, but you… You kept my heart for yourself. And every now and again you return to it and watch, pressing down slowly upon the needles that hang there like some strange, disturbed voodoo doll. Well, when the needles have been pressed through, they’ll have nowhere left to go, and the holes that you leave, will heal over tenfold.”


  Waste not, want not.

  Want not, waste not.
                  Wasted not, wanted.
                  Wanted not, wasted.
                   Wasted no. Not wasted. He just feels it.