You smile good-bye,

And I despise you

With every fiber

Of my heart:


Did you not tell me

That you loved me –

But just enough

To wish me luck?


You see exactly

Where I’m going;

You understand

I won’t return;


I value it

That you should trust me –

So blindly

You would watch me turn


To dust, and still expect

Next morning

To feel my hand,

In yours clasped tightly:


I’ll joke about the

Death I’d died and

Lie to your face

That all is fine;


Yet, when you even try

To stop me,

I simply laugh

Into your eyes;


No, not because

I’m mad and callous,

But because I find weakness



You should have listened

When they told you,

‘She looks it,

But she isn’t nice,’


Sadly, your heart

Did not choose wisely;

Sadly, you followed it

And now…


You can’t let go

Without it seeming

That you don’t love me

As you should,


Nor can you stop me

When I leave; sadly,

I can’t imagine

How you would;


What is it called,

This game of grasping,

Of letting go,

Of pain and patience,


A game

For miserable losers

Who play not with each other

But themselves?


You know too many of my secrets,

Too many times you’ve seen me fall;

Your eyes keep track of every weakness

I try to hide under cold armor from the world;


You love about me things which aren’t

Deserving of more than contempt;

You like the smiles, the tears, the frowns that

I hate – just like most other features of my self;


My eccentricities don’t scare you,

My doubts don’t make you doubt your choice

To be with someone ever-absent,

Who’s all her own and won’t be yours;


And in your hands my ill-kept secrets

Are deadly weapons, which you use

When with those hands you bend and break me,

And through your mouth spit out abuse


You love about me all that’s ugly

Because those spots aren’t hard to hit;

Against my own self-hate defenseless,

I stay; for who will feed your anger if I leave?


My eccentricities don’t scare you –

They, too are targets for your blows,

But this unyielding something in me

Your fists can’t reach, is still my own;


It is the pride that I was born with,

Which some like you would take away;

It is the courage to be smiling, crying, frowning

With a bruised face, day after day;


It is the hope, too, that one morning

I would wake up and wouldn’t need

Somebody by my side, destroying

My body – to distracts me from the pain under my skin

The Portrait

I draw my thoughts and feelings

On your face,

Imagining they are

Your own,


And put such words between your lips

As you would never say;

To me

It matters not


That you do not exist

The way I see you:

A book in progress

I complete too soon


An empty canvas, which I over-paint

With meaning,

But dry paint cracks, and you emerge –

The true you I don’t know