Your words remind me of maggots
on the chicken that we fished from the fridge.
Wriggling, squeezing inside the flesh to hide
from the light of exposure.

They're eating away at me.

And yet, they're meaningless.

You reap what you sow.
And you sowed mayhem;
falling for me was pure catastrophe, mister.

I struggled with Let's just be friends
awkward cliches twisting my insides.
You said you could manage it.

But pressuring for a meet
with just the two of us...
at yours.
That sounds more cosy
than I could manage.

I struggled with travel plans
and chatting around your crude,
sexual comments and questions
and innuendo
And "Do you fancy me yet?"

You didn't make it easy for me.
So, yeah, I neglected you.

(But you made it impossible not to,
and that last text? Denial is ill-fitting
for you. It took two.)