Have you been waiting for me to write a poem about you?
You once said you read the others,
But I’m left wondering how many of your sweet words were
Really just fingers undoing buttons.
If you really read them,
You’d know how f ucked I am.
I guess you’re pretty f ucked up, too.

Did you expect to see,
Written on this page,
Words comparing your beautiful eyes to the
Arctic Sea?
I don’t like your eyes-
They see my soul the way I would rather not be seen.

Were you hoping I’d write about the times you
Pinned me against the wall
And made me feel wanted?
I’d believe you wanted me if you could do it sober.
The things I hate about you are the same things I hate about
Myself.

The truth is, I don’t think about you all that much. I just whet my tongue.