i've never been so grateful
to lack the courage to be honest
than when we spoke at long last
and you revealed you'd been deceitful
to find out that to you
i was purely an experiment
to see if you would feel something
when i was in it for the sentiment
and loved you without reservation
unaware of your motivation
was like a reinforcement, yet again
that all my struggles are in vain
and that i'll wind up, in the end,
trying to excise my feelings
and my shattered heart to mend
but if these things you say are true
and it's pointless for me to go on wanting you
when you don't want me, too,
why is it that every time
your blood-alcohol balance is tipped
you seem to find me sublime
more than merely a pasttime
and, time after time,
into my arms - my bed - you've slipped
because i know you know the phrase
in a dead language, nevertheless
if "in vino veritas"
then maybe you need to reassess
or maybe that old saying
contains less truth than i had hoped
and now that your words have stopped ricocheting
like a bullet cavernating in my ribcage
it would appear that i haven't coped
and how could i after that level of stun
but now that the damage is done
those wounds should eventually fade
evaporate off my skin
like dew in the face of the rising sun