i am too tired to play Switzerland
when the matters of my own heart
i no longer understand.

sometimes I wish broken hearts
could be seen with the naked eye,
like how you see flesh wounds and plaster.
Maybe if her pain was visible,
he could finally see that he is without excuse
for all the damage he caused her.

*v.g

lately i have begun to wonder
whether two poets may fall in love.
do they live in the afterthought,
or what the moment’s made of?


lately i have begun to ponder
how two poets could co-exist.
do their worlds blur together,
or prefer not to mix?

how could they possibly
take everything in stride?
knowing that every silky word
was a well thought of line?

how could they stand it
being someone’s muse?
isn’t it intimidating enough
walking in your own shoes?

now, excuse me if
i’m coming off strong.
its just, i loved a poet once
and we fit together all wrong.

Four months ago,
I told you to treat me gently,
and that I had a fragile binding.
and yet,
you were incessant on studying me,
burning with curiosity at my intro.

Three months ago,
I reminded you to take it slow,
and that there was no need to rush.
but instead,
you wanted to tear through my pages,
and skip what was a beautiful rising action.

Two months ago,
I pleaded with you that I was strange,
full of plot holes and bleak mysteries.
rather than return me,
you became fixated on my next chapter,
yearning deeply for the ******.


You were disappointed.


A month ago,
I tried my hardest to become your fairy tale,
and move past our disagreements.
But despite that,
you were consumed with regrets of me,
ignoring my falling constitution.


So as of yesterday,
I finally became the tragedy
you wanted of me.
a disastrous novel,
you finally found the end you were searching for...
              
                              ... that is, my own.