You thought it would be poetic
to fuck the girl who’d write about you?
Alright, let’s give it a go then -
You’re the boy who’s used to having
girls being handed to you on a silver platter.
You think it’s fun to have me eating
out of the palm of your hand, well
I think that’s funny coming from someone who says
they hate the game, but God do you play it well.
You pick your teeth
with the loneliness you smelled
from my bones and every girl you’ve ever undone
but joke’s on you, love,
you need us more than we need you.
Without our blood staining your tongue
all you’d taste is
how empty you’ve become
and how so hard you’re trying to be you.
You called me a coward, and maybe I am but
at least I admit it. You think you’re brave
the way you blaze through life with closed wrists?
It takes more guts to be gentle and kind.
It takes more guts to let the darkness swallow you whole than
to hold a torch screaming how indestructible you are.
One day you’ll look in the mirror and for the first time
it won’t be vanity staring back -
it will be our ghosts and your former self,
whoever the hell it was, and it will sting your throat like
Jaegermeister hidden in snow. You’ll expect me
to be awkward weak knees and all, and that’s sad
because I could save you, but I won’t.
Instead I’ll smoke my cigarette
and watch you crash and burn.
You read my writing and it
told you not to fuck with me.
I warned you not to play with fire.
Tell me, now -
how does it feel to be a poem?