if I asked you to love me, would you?


I open my mouth so that

something wonderful and romantic may pour forth

and make you happy,

as we cuddle on the fading sofa in your

apartment which looks a lot shadier than it really is,

but your press your finger to my lips

and warn me softly with your eyes

that I'll probably ruin the moment

(you always said that I was

so much prettier when I

shut the fuck up)


I told you that I loved you

and you told me that you loved me too

(in a tone that said:





why is it that when I ask you

why you never buy roses or chocolate or

teddy bears that I would eventually throw away

after you broke my heart the sixteenth time,

that you just smile and tell me that I'm cute

when I talk about myself when you're gone

(I fished that bear out of the Dumpster at

exactly 3:09am, and cried into its fur

that was stained with some sort of awful

baby formula, why why why

I am not worth you're love?)


six and a half months later

you call me and tell me

that you miss my beautiful

blue eyes and how they made you

think of the sea and silk and sapphires

(i remind you that my eyes are brown

much like the shit you made me feel like)


I asked you to love me

and you asked me

"my place, or yours?"