I don't want you to see how dirty this experience has made me.
baby, I was in love before like night and day.
(nono I won't say his name, especially not to you)
I don't want you to hear or see
the way his name slips past my lips.
(like I am creating honey in my liver,
and it's overflowing out of my mouth
masquerading as a form of words.)

I don't want you to know that my heart has been broken.
that the sounds you hear coming out of my chest
are not heartbeats, but old splintered pieces mending.
(my heart does not beat, it coughs. still ill
from a case of commitment issues and time)

I don't want you to know, that I am a poet.
you know I write poetry, but you don't know
what it has done to me. I am, mad with poetry.
(it takes so much will power, to keep myself from:
calling you stardust, and scribbling verse onto
the small of your back when you're sleeping.)

but most of all I don't want you to, suit me.
and turn out to be the boy, I've been looking for this whole time.
because upon which I would have to immediately respond by:
sucking down the last of my vodka, and fucking another boy.
or, curling myself in at the foot of your bed with a journal
scribbling madly at it for hours, or until sun up.
(evidence would suggest)

a/n: honesly, I like this quite a lot...hm