my reasons

and i thought it was the last poem i would write for you. fuck you for
forcing these words out of my mouth like you’re standing on my chest.
you see this afternoon i have been playing with maths playing with me
and the irreversible conclusion is that i wish you were cold hard dead.
let me cast the blame for desertion on you though i am the deserter.
let you assume the mantle of weakness though of course i was weak.
let you sink slowly into the ground to decay there with your halflife
measured in hours not the years it’s been since we died cold and hard.

and i thought we would last. i really did back when we were fighting
everyone and everything for it instead of crumbling from the inside.
prostitute yourself for the feeling of belonging to something anything.
i know you are doing this because you so enjoyed doing this to me:
pulling me to the edge and beyond only to take on your animal self
and push me away again for some elusive freedom. fuck you for
making it easy to justify in your absence and your petulant tantric
penduluming allegiances and your insane devotion to upper hands
and your constant undecided vacillation between many poles
and how you’d toss yourself at any man who’d so much as look.

and you thought it was the last poem i’d write you. well fuck you.
go engorge yourself on another’s affections. i don’t really mind
finally being warm and full of blood and not dreading your return.