You said you would die for me,
but dying is easy

I’ve done it every day for years,

stumbling into mornings that move
like treacle,

the night before spent staring blankly
at my computer screen,
or the ceiling,
or the clock,

anything but behind my own eyes,
to the insides of my mind,

dying isn’t being shot in the chest,
or some huge catastrophic event that deafens the world for a moment,

it is small acts of apathy ,
that leave you dizzy and sick,

a kiss that is not returned,
a cold shoulder in the middle
of the night,

so die for me, please,
because I’m tired of killing myself,

trying to love you