You want a boy from a neat little clan,
With a house, a dog, and a five-year plan.
A dog named Gatsby — a film kind of name,
While I stay the ghost in your heart’s hidden frame.
The softest, the calmest, the freshest by far,
The girl who won’t moan in my bed like a star,
Who won’t cry out “Faster!” beneath midnight sheets —
Just a memory fading through half-broken beats.
To flip this whole game? That would sure be divine,
But you are a caliph — you don’t cross the line.
“You must find your peace,” you said with no fuss,
While I threw up alone on a tile full of dust.
You came like Malvina — a porcelain flame.
I said, “I love you,” you answered, “Not same.”
“Not same,” was your word, your full quiet end,
I drowned in that “no” you refused to amend.
In my ***** I sank, like a ship full of rot,
It smelled like the people that heaven forgot,
It smelled like the fires that bogs never lose —
I died in that bathtub, no chance to refuse.
You put me to sleep like a dog gone too sick.
Too bad I’m not Gatsby, not pretty, not quick.
My owner? Not someone from sweet family ties —
He'd hold my paw softly, not hand me goodbyes.
You held my hand just to whisper: “Now die.”
