because stares are for the back wall,
smiles are not met (no meetings on our lips or a dancing around our mouths)
secrets are never shared (whispers or shouts, they're all silent)

because all this time has been a waste,
passion was a fleeting thought,
love is just a password (under shirts and into pants)

because this is just an insult to existence,
an assault on every memory, hiding in the backseat, and
murdering my eyes (brown and red for the dirt rubbed in to stop it and the lack of sleep that follows)

poetic suicide.