I am stunned by how,
you, a simple boy,
can in one breath,
destroy years of progress.
(I am not 19, anymore,
I will not be fooled
by eyes the color of
a summer day,
and breath coated
with alcohol that
burns through my chest).
You are not my future,
but you are painted by my past.
A name with the weight of a
and a chance for a do-over.
I can’t tell if my heart beats
for you, or for the chance you represent.
(and there is our predestined outcome.
you have his name,
his web of lies.
But this time, I am the one with the
weight of the world on my finger).
when you touch me,
i will not bleed.
(he already drained me dry).
I am the villian in your storybook,
the dragon you valiantly splatter across the pages
in the final chapter.
I am your most violent words,
the sound of breaking and the loss of innocence.
(I am the glass shard in your heart,
the inescapable wound).
I pretend that the syllables of your name
do not violate the edge of my tongue,
but you dull me down to a gentle curve
with your veritable virtue.
It is not your body I wish to victimize,
but your soul; I want to view the parts
that make you less than whole.
(you cut me open, vivisect my most
important organ until it beats only for you).
I am not variable, I am constant.
(i am still ticking between your fingers).