in every sense, has become

poetic deception. You

and I are standing on opposite continents now.

I sit back and

watch as you perform

on command, the

drop of a hat;

you reinstitute your lies, with

a calm, sanguine

countenance. Who are you trying to convince,


But wait, we've been here before. This

place where I cut for your attention, where all

I wanted was your

love in return for mine. It

is a place that we

will only venture to in our

minds from here on out, because it is

dead, as we are dead.

I find my heart is still beating.

I am still

receiving a flood of emotions. And

though, I miss you at times, I

do not regret that we are dead. The fault

belongs to no one- but

maybe you. For you

were the traitor, who in

the first month found unconditional love.

You who tore me from my

Pedestal and replaced me with him… (as is your right).

I'm sorry:

if I had a penis to

stick in your vagina, would you

love me again?

I only want to be free, and that

can never

be so long as you bury me with

your eyes- their accusations

of the guilt and sadness I should feel but don't. so long as you

write poetry

and perform for all to see and all

to know that it

is about me. You

declared this war


in self defense don't think this


die without a fight. Wrong or right all

I've done is return the

favor (the poem I wrote about

you would not even exist if you

had not read your interpretation

of my

reflection to our fifth

hour class). Retaliation was

inevitable- you

know this.