Tuesday, October 6, 2009

A Dear John Letter

you make my skin crawl
every time your soul reaches out
to touch my skin
i feel you
taste your breath
smell your leather
and it makes me sick
like too many irish car-bombs
you are the sour milk
i guess i'm the burn of whiskey
i hope you choke on it
every time you taste me
on your lips
on your memory
i hope it stings
your fingers on my cheek
just a shadow
but i bite anyway
i hate your touch
i hate your taste
i hate your sad eyes and your sad smile and your sad stories
you invade me
break in
how could you believe i would still want you?
you send your wolf to watch me
yellow stares
sick yellow
and i tell him
in whispers
i don't need you anymore
he remains
intact and impossible
until my butterfly chases him away
if i sprout wings
and chase you
maybe you'll disappear too
leave my memory
the way it was
before you tore it open

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