Little, insignificant thing, you plague me-- with the slightest touch,
I come undone. Miniscule, you are miniscule; yet, you chill blood
you clench fists you **** friends you fake smiles you feign tears
you forge lies. You are to me a flesh infected cancer virus parasite,
gripping me, like fingers through a chain link fence. You are
nothing, and everything--an infuriating anomaly--a stone in my shoe,
and in my heel, and spine, and brain stem...a creaking, wooden
floorboard in my neck, and brow, and knees...a nail in my sternum...

I need you
like a restless night;
I need you
like a ****** sore without the ***.

I don't need you.
I don't need you.
I can barely bring myself to want you.

I lied; I want your touch, eyes shut. You are the flame, and the moth;
you are my end, and my truth, you are the loss I feel at morning--
You are the first ray of light that robs me of my welcome dream.

You should be an attic box,
tucked away and left forgotten.
(But even your silence is heavy,
and your absence has a gravity.)