As a bathtub lined with white porcelain, When the hot water gives out or goes tepid, So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion, O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.
The fire spreads while you touch me gently I know your lies, and i've known all of them for years six years i can see your odd blinking & i can hear your trembling voice when you say you have to go back home or to go back to your stuff with has nothing to do with me and it's okay to try to protect someone who's been hurting for more than two decades but it's not fair to treat this person as someone who's as weak & innocent as a kid that wouldn't know how to handle the truth i can be hurt & i know how to hurt people and it can be dangerous because i know where to put the sharp words & leave no traces behind but you're not me and your lies have been as sharp as my own words when used as a weapon but i don't know if these wounds will heal anytime soon unlike when i am the one who inflicts them myself because i don't care if they will heal because i wanted the pain because i longed for the wound to be open & reopened as time passed by but your lies are like a razorblade slipping back & forth through the same wound you've inflicted on me many years ago.
What are you supposed to be? It’s an interesting question It sits in front of me Uncompromising There’s no doubt that I am who I am But is who I am Who I want to be?
The words 'What are you supposed to be' are scratched on the back of a train seat. Poem written October 2012