Summer once more,
you dote on him and make excuses on his favour.
Saying “not guilty” when we, the judges, know
how criminally wrong.

Need some time, he argues,
as I, your friend, sigh against the obvious.
But you can't see because he curses you the culprit
while playing victim.

We both know, your eyes tell me,
through the manipulation and the love that's more like “***”
that blinds you, that binds you
he twists you once more around his finger until he gets bored
and moves onto another.

Can't you see?
The boundaries between *** and making love?

Stop begging for scraps of attention, can't you see?
Love is not constant incrimination.