Waking up with a stray guitar pick
Weaved in between my sheets and
my comforter,
I feel like a poem
But I'll still roll over
to face the wall,
I'll feel his eyes burning holes
Down my spine
And I will whisper
Again
That I am quitting this time
Quitting love
And quitting art
He'll laugh
And climb from my bed,
"Ah. The two things most likely to **** you"
He'll say
And he'll be right
But I'll keep dying here
Anyway