you can't decide for me
it's written in your eyes
and how i despise myself
.
.
.
when his cold look,
empty of recognition,
lanced me through
i couldn't speak to thank him.
the gratitude coagulated
within the confines,
indistinguishable,
of my unremarkable throat.
i felt a storm start
in my temples as he began
speaking, again, unconscious
to break my will
and conscious i,
i tried to try to close my eyes
to the vestments
of the liar in me
while he cut me through.
i, as per usual, prayed
on his glance
and i hoped to have grown
through mumbling
apologies for my drear
and uninteresting demeanour
when he sought better company.
i suppose the shite i'm writting lately has become a bit more structured, and slightly less pointed. as in, we're trying not to directly quote and spell out incidents anymore. it makes for especially bad reading i'm sure... yes, more self-deprecating nonsense. it isn't as if i feel this way intensely for more than one or two particular hours of the day, but there you are.
email: reflectingoddess@mailcity.com