The crime isn't that I hate you.
It isn't that Your presence
Thickens the air around me so much,
(when you come near
bathed in your fear
and drenched in mine)
or that your putrid significant entry
(into any place where I am)
revolts my body
The crime isn't that I went for the guy
(I knew you liked)
and sucked him off
in your bed
in your house
at your party
(which was shit
and no mistaking it).
And not that I left the boy there
in post-ecstatic bliss
half-naked on the dirty sheets
where I knew you'd find him.
Boys are such easy objects for spiteful plans
(and gross affections)
The crime isn't the way I tell everyone
all the things you don't want me to tell,
all the secrets and trusts you invest in me.
(I'm a bank of your scandals and I pay
your interst in (your) insecurities)
You now qualify of the Platinum Card
(of dirty, dirty secrets)
The crime isn't the continuation of this
despite all the pain I've put you through
and all the things I've done to you
whilst staying your
all the same.
Our friendship has years in time.
(But also tears for the crime
and the crime's unveiling.)
The crime is that
Through it all
in the down and dirty
grim and gory
primaeval sense of the words.
A feeling that was past yearning, beyond desire
but a fundamental need
for your body.
And for that crime,
I will serve my sentence;
a life of solitude and torment
in my (longing) of you.
Ok I know this is really crap. But how can I make better? Or should I just scrap it entirely?
Reviews greatly appreciated. Thanks guys.
X x x