Wednesday, November 13, 2013

I Get It.


I get it,
I am your luteal phase liaison,
living the palate cleanser struggle 
ruffle of ginger on the table
of your life's banquet,
only to be nibbled briefly before
you're on to bigger fish to fry

I get it,
so go on,
be afraid of my affection
mistaken to be some
sort of long con
in the eyes of those long gone
on a journey I'm supposedly 
too meek to follow.

I get it,
carousel queens, 
I love you but
save your light late night
"I'm just his Fleshlight" calls 
for someone who cares after you 
let that "Let's Just be Friends"
arrow fly through the air.

I get it,
but I would rather burn bridges
than be a white knight guarding
the conquered flights 
of false idols on way too tall pedestals
I know I am a fool for having built
especially when the rain of guilt
fall like spears for years.

I get it,
being a sure-footed stepping stool 
to shoulder you in asexual stretches
in the daytime
yet I find myself still 
being a step-and-fetch-it 
bitch because those dudes who 
fuck that night don't get sucked 
into sinkholes studded
with tension that comes 
with the friendships 
that are handcuffed by 
poisonous expectation,
a sharp blade dragged across
tired brains intent to invent
the madness that comes 
with furious fairy tale speculation.


I get it
y'all don't owe me a thing
but you you must understand
that line between love and hate
is razor-thin and so adept
at cutting one out of his 
own yearning skin.



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