you wanted poetry

You wanted poetry, didn't you?

Mine, and yours. I gave you both.

You wanted crashing waves and

bloodied knees and

the heartbreaking silence of 89 words per minute

typed in a short staccato beat.

Impassioned and precise.

You want adventure.

Just not mine

that came before you

like I didn't exist until

you saw me

hatched

as if from an egg

the day before

I met you

rather than forged

like a hot steel bar

and unbreakable

because I've been broken.

It is my curse to spend forever writing about heartbreak

and never love.

Always: Goodbye. Never: I'll stay.

The end, no middle.

Maybe that's why I eat batter off the spoon in little licks

that make my stomach hurt.

The cake is good, but finished

and I am sick on endings.

I wanted your middle.

Raw.

Sweet and runny and still a work in progress.

Wanted it till my stomach hurt.

What part of me did you want? The poetry?

That's always the goodbye.

You'll get that in the end.

It's the cake. Sweet and pretty, but finished.

You'll get that, and you'll believe you know more.

You'll get that, but believe me, no more.