I am prime rib, diner patron,

dollar dime a dozen,

you meat ripping off my bone,

I haven’t cried in months but I feel like prey.

Dying for you to prove me wrong, I never been wrong once,

I need, wronged many,

you were a shooting star but I dunno if you saw yourself as more than flaming dust;

and it’s that hard line of forgive and forget

but I wanna let you know that if you are true I would give you anything you wanted, just to know

that the world was not as desperate for the mirror as we claimed to be, please

please let me have you this once. I am so set on a path of gone I wouldn’t even know

what you had left to give me,

I had inventory of the paper swans I folded for you every night.

You will only ever know my loss and it knocked me down, past medians all the nice girls clung to,

I clung to,

I clung to life so long it sucker punched me and that is less poetry than obituary. I died after you, and I will survive you somehow

and I will never be a man’s sunset

and this is less a sad song and more a tale for how I didn’t know how to end a fight.

You asked not to lose me and I gave you the map,

balled up to receipt-size;

did you count pennies for eye-weights

or just capitalist ventures? I am sick off sorrow.

Regardless you should know that I gave you

this glassjaw on a pyrex platter.

Permanent is just a marker

for those moments when we were too scared

to be anything but forever.


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