i wince because you wanted me
to love you tenderly and tirelessly,
but tragically for you, all you ever did

was waste my precious time. so, sure,
you can twist my words, do it for
your own self-assurance, but i will

note yours down accurately, for my
own sanity and art; i can handle being
publicly contempted, but we both know,

deep down, you are still attempting
to be something you are so clearly not

i like my family
i like my friends
i like my room-mate
i like my cat
i like my working title
i like my collections
i like my neighbourhood
i like my city
i like my mayor
i like my people
i like my table
i like my
i like
i
i

i hate my poem