you're what they call a ladykiller,
doe eyes speaking languages they
don't teach in elementary school for
good reason.
what they call
a heartbreaker, even though we all know
heart's cannot break, nor are they pink
with smooth edges, perfect for valentine's day cards
that the first graders pass to each other in
fifteen minutes.
you know how to choke a heart, leave it gasping for blood,
how to leave a hooker breathless,
lusting for a name or a business card.
you're what they call a disease,
poisoning populations with your seed,
your rimmed eyes sponging away at
self control and
self
worth.
less
time poring over you
has been a virtue since the sky ripped open.
you're the one that's getting away.

fifteen. we were shy and horny and inexperienced.
i lied in the skinny girl's bed
and wore your shirts to
make her jealous.
seventeen. we were disgusting.
the skinny girl hated us, we were an inbred monster
of lips and clavicles.
the power couple.
nineteen. we were broken.
your vines had wrapped around my lifeline,
dripping thorns puncturing every orifice.
i opened up my brain to you,
but you were too content with poking holes and
filling them with
testosterone
to really read me.
i cramp my hand trying to feel you,
under my sheets
on paper
in general.
you're what they call a jagged edge,
the invisible man,
the one who hits his women.