Love and Communication

My girlfriend:
Your next poem is this poem.

You’re selfish.
You’re incredulous.
You’re everything I wish I didn’t understand.
You’re everything I should run from and you inhabit my space.


Get the fuck out of my osmotic bubble flesh eating virus.


Selfish.



So selfish.


Start your poem. The last words to the end of mine.


I am dried up in the gaze that slashed and cripples my skin beneath this down comforter.




Fucking parasite.



AND WHEN YOU YOU YOU READ THIS….

It's not you.


It's not the form in which was meant for you YOU.

You are all of this and non of this because the problem…Watson.


It's this.

Im the mirror.

Myself:
I am the mirror.

But the reflection to it is shattered and makes me nervous.

The glass? You broke it yourself and you’re asking ME, ME to pick them up?
Darling, pick them up yourself, then we’ll talk.

Then I’ll really be incredulous to the idea that you cannot see.
Then I’ll be an atheist amongst all these people who can only follow and follow and numb and numb and run run run…

I ask myself if you don’t ever get tired of running… ‘cause I’m here looking around and I don’t see any medals, or trophies. But hey, it’s your high.


Poem

written in one fine punch in the stomach.

And I vomit nothing.

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