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.