they said all I ever did
was to live by feeding off all your accomplishments,
that I was only a fiend-not your friend
but if they began from the beginning,
perhaps they'd understand...

I was just jealous-of your will and
determination,
to move on from the memories
and act as if they never did happen

8 months makes a memento
maybe that makes me pathetic-
to still be writing rhymes about you,
and lock you inside my head.

but-
don't you worry,
I'm about to move on
mister nobody will finally write his final lines.

The depth of the darkness you claimed to feel inside my eyes-
lead you straight to my secrets
and helped break through the seduction-façade-every lie...

I bet these brown burrows brought a sense of home
each time you laid in my arms it gave a sensation of hope

But poets are petty for guilt tripping those we claim
“we hold close”

however,
isn’t it unfair?
That I can’t fall asleep alone-
since my muse keeps holding my dreams for ransom-
every night infiltrates my subconscious
without an invitation...

I won’t put blame on you
it’s me who hates myself
for signing away happiness
trading it for selfish ***

I realized in the dusk of a darkening night,
when the rain enclosed a soggy emotion,
revelations of a cycle I have entrapped myself into-
came in spite of foggy-ill-ententions.

I had to leave and fill myself with hate
and pry you would feel the same before it’d be too late...

I hate how much I still love you, it honestly makes me sick.
apart of me wishes we could wipe the slate
and try another attempt.
but that’s the problem-it will never work

so sorry that I never learned and held onto the silence-I didn’t write all these lines to make you hurt
I know I must be a ****
giving you such simple things
like letters and gifts

keep something as a souvenir to remind you how it’s all meaningless stuff
for when the sun fades away - later today - there’s a chance {I will be considering} that you’ll actually be taking it all apart;
out of destruction-or embarrassment- the possibilities for you not to finish this note are endless...

but poetry is just words on dead trees
I speak in circles
for breakfast I’ll eat all my words
until I feel empty
then I’ll pour
every drop of this petty pain
into a symbolic rusted chalice
and drink until I get drunk-
off from my last soliloquy {that goes} ;

perhaps later in life - when we both reach our prime
we can sit down together and look each other in the eye
until then hate all the things I gave and took away from your life