I could write a hundred poems,
each one could paint a horrid picture of you.
But not one could make these feelings
disappear.
And you know what?
That ******* *****.
I'll just be a slave.
not to you-
but to time.
Waiting for this to disappear.
I hope you see this and realize something.
Some sort of direction-
be it to leave or to make amends.
I keep smiling and trying to love.
Unconditionally.
Like I've been- all this time.
But all I do is make a fool of myself.
Three times.
Shame on me.

If I can get over what you create,
and how you smile-
I would be just fine.
I would be just fine.

You think *** is *****.
That's why the types of women you ****,
are the ones that you hate,
and why you can't make love,
or lick to taste.
That's why you want to spit at me,
with your scrunched up face.
That's why you don't say a thing,
after blowing your load.
No matter how hard I made you explode,
you pull apart and go straight for your phone.
The paper towels,
sports zones,
like sweaty men bumping helmets
are any cleaner.

I tell you I missed you,
you press your lips together in silence-
as if admitting that you felt the same
would result in the loss of your voice,
forever.

Compared you to a child,
but children are less dishonest.

No*, you do not love me.
I only love *you.