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Soil

May 19, 2013

sixtyone

You’re a mess.
And you dress like a freak.
But I’m weak for you in a million ways.
You’ve read all the books that I’ve read.
And were raised the way I was razed.
Personal tragedy is not a personality.
I used to burn every letter she sent.
You’re so like her it’s nearer to murder.
But familiarity doesn’t always breed contempt.

I’m not a misogynist, right, but…
You’re such a massive slut.
And, honestly, it’s part of what I love.
You look askance.
But, you know me.
Hooked on dissonance.
Hanged by jealousy.
Hysterical, self appointed genius.

So I consider us as a couple.
And here I see the trouble.
How’d you enjoy the weekend.
When every man in the bar has fucked your girlfriend?
And I remember that night.

You told me you hated your body.
And I was, like, you’re kidding?
I’ve got a thing for Rubenesque women.
But you still turned out the light.
I think, ugh, right, maybe feel if she’s wet?
I’ve had a few drinks.
I need all the help I can get.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
I never cared for Nietzsche.
And on that he was never wronger.

But you were still there in the morning.
And we lay in The Garden, like Adam and Eve.
Naming the animals in the shade of the leaves.
We laughed away appointments.
Kissed away embarrassments.
Breathing into my chest in your walk-of-shame dress.
Whilst I worked through the ways I could fuck you again.
But it didn’t seem right.

You told me I had beautiful eyes.
And I do.
You left and I never saw you again.
Not really.
I’ll take your heart to my grave and I never even knew you.

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From → Poetry

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