Spare me your narrow mind --
the sharp edges of your thoughts cut deep into flesh better suited to bruise
Don't twist your words into the gaslighting of a sociopath
You smile in them, but I've come to realize it is the smile
of a wicked ticking crocodile
and I'm out of time.
Five is the magic number - phalanges to syllables to tiles on a floor.
Five years rambling around in the darkest of green eyes, in the raw fiber of sultry voices,
in the streetlight suburbs of an Orange city.
Weakness, vulnerability, idiocy -- your words to describe what I prefer to term
Optimistic, good-natured, hopeful.
Someone seeking the best in people.
I assure you, your words fit much better now. You saw to that.
You saw to everything, pulled on strings that would have been better off frayed.
You tasted of evergreen, made everything so clear and fresh
It was natural to confide in you, garner your unique perspective on the course of life
Not unique, of course, but so very rare, so very ******* coveted.
You always were the con artist, my love.
The taste of your bitter ash might come from the fact that you ******* us all over
So perfectly.
I really should have known better.
Fiiiive years, I hate this poem but in a way i need it up here
