He scrambles to the next lover,
to soothe his own pain,
to scramble up their life,
to match his chaos brewing like coffee.
To rob them of reality,
of up from down,
rob them from someone who would consume their whole being,
not spitting out one seed,
who would be concious of just whom they are loving.
For in truth, when he said he loved me,
when he pressed his nose to mine,
when our auras conjoined...
what he really meant was,
I love not being lonely.
For love does not just throw up the white dish towel and die.
We do not mean to scramble up what we want and what we need inside,
it just happens from time to time.
Afterall, I'm the indulgent one who bit,
the half soul, half ego ***** who asked for cheese on top.
Protesting as a vegan means nothing in truth,
when I've just as soon devoured what's offered up too soon.
My system was not ready for eggs,
for dairy,
I threw it all up.
Then when my system was realized and ready,
I wondered why his breakfast plate couldn't magically be resurrected,
hot off the stove of "love".
When I threw it all up,
he took offense, rightfully.
He broke the plate on which he served me.
From the diner, he banished me.
He said, I thought you were ready!
At the sight of what looks like insufficient culinary ability,
I cannot have you here, this liability,
I am sorry.
"Man on the Moon" series.
