Avoidant of the decades
I lived in your accolades
And when I left you in the open
You left me go unspoken.

My pain is yours
To be written on all your doors
For everyone to know
Hatred is the new low.

And if I had something else to feel
I'd say it's not real
This is the new ordeal
Revenge with not much else to feel.

And in-between the praise
They don't know the man I raised.

My heart was shattered
Broken glass
Shards of ice
Love’s a lie
and lies the word
I saw you with her
The blonde,the girl

But as you know
I’m bitter- sweet
I’ll cut the clothes
You keep so neat

I’ll order pizzas everyday
and strippergrams
I’ll make you pay

I hope you suffer
I hope you’re beat
One thing I know-
Revenge is sweet

She knows it
When you hiss
You don't like her
She has learnt you
She knows she's just a toy
For you, kitty!
But for my scars
They wish for vengeance
For your capture
So when you find yourself
In a cage of your own making
You should try to learn
Not to hiss at
The hand that feeds you

Let’s play a game
Set the stakes high
Winner takes all
An eye for an eye

A calculated risk
That I’ve prepared to lose
But nothing compares
To the damage you’ll ensue

It goes knights before bishops
And just a few pawns
The sacrifice required
To right all the wrongs

I’ve got you surrounded
With nowhere to hide
I told you winner takes all
An eye for an eye

The dish served cold, but with what pretense?

I am in the dark and cold, I've left the desire to be bold,
I am and will lie in wait here, even until I am old --- to see you.

Your back, my malicious place, my new home,
I wish I didn't need this blade, so my wrists could undo your form
beginning at the ribcage. How I wish to dispel this rage.

The structure guarding me from doom, holding my visage
in oblivion's place. This friend gives me the ultimate weapon,
and the greatest devastation you will not face.

Your armour, reflecting moonlight, my hunger has become thirst.
That shield, for what purpose gave it you the sky, such deception,
I understand from this place.

The steed, galloping, taking, puncturing fate for your impending, never-ending doom...my guardian of certainty, my knowing beast under mine enemy's line.

I raised you, but to die. Oh, inkling, minuscule minor thought, developing into this moment so grand.

Brace, you cannot...I will bless thee with the duty but to rot. Your future days are of paradise, and I witness from this kingdom until you come.

Does my presence torment your mind? Or does my face etch itself upon your fingers at night ?

Doomed to see but never to touch. Doomed to be a prisoner of memory and fear.

Curses and bloodbaths have summoned you near. Do you feel the weight of my spirit whenever she is near ?

Fated to futility, your mind torments its own being. A mind that longs but never fully seeing.

Endless rivers have I cried for you; now it’s your turn to kneel at my pew.

Tempted to touch, take a bite. Or forever be haunted by my memory into the dusk of an eternal night.

Cut to me: tempting his anger with my white-knuckled grip and words so honest they could make a saint scream.

Cut to him: choking on his own twisted tongue and front-door fear.

Cut to me: still holding the reins of the wreckage, still not letting go-

Cut to him: saying sort yourself out, saying he’s broken women far stronger, saying anything he can to turn me against him, saying he’d pay for my own heart to be sealed.

Cut to me: a daisy in my mouth, a blackbird in my hand, a shattered window in my chest. I have this feeling that I'm not supposed to be here, I have this feeling that I’m only half-way through this story.

Cut to him: six feet tall, and each one a cellblock of quiet anguish.

Cut to me: cutting my feet on breaking branches, scraping my fingers on the rough bark of a tree. The poems don’t say anything, the tears never come. The rain falls in the wrong places, the daffodils die for the wrong reasons.

Cut to him: new job, new state, new life. Starting from scratch but still scratching at the itch that looks like me, still licking wounds from the daggers aimed at my hope that ricocheted back to his own. What does he do with his hands when he thinks of me? How does he deal with his guilt when it claws up his throat and he’s afraid to spit it out?

Cut to me: dreaming him with long hair. I don’t know where to imagine him when I imagine him; a topographic map of unknowing in my mind- an uncured landscape and rough terrain. I see him as a question mark in the wilderness; forging his own labyrinth of twisted truths and hop-scotching the minefield he planted.

Cut to him: Not really in the wilderness, probably in a condo in a mid-sized city. I think if he meets a nice girl who tags him in her Facebook posts, I’d have to **** myself.

Cut to me: demolishing the both of us, casting his secrets like seeds in the dirt, watching scandal bloom, and his character rot in the high noon sun.

Cut to me: imagining annihilation, holding his hand while leading us to slaughter, destroying us both, and having a marvelous time doing it. I’d make sure they slit my throat first; he’d have to hold me while I bleed out, stroke my face as it loses color, and tell me it’s going to be okay as I fade away.

Cut to me: doing none of these things. I don’t have it in me; when I told him I’d never hate him, I meant it. Wading through summer defanging the snakes in my belly, hoping he’s declawing the tigers in his mind. I won’t admit that I’m waiting, but the story's just half-told. Our plot is paused, and I’m sitting alone, but what if it’s merely intermission, and he’s just at the bar, getting us drinks?