I know your type well
because you used to be mine.
But now, when I look at you,
I think of my lost time.
Whether your hair grows
or gets cut short,
your curls can't hide
the storm in your eyes.
And I'm still in lust,
borrowed from old flames.
You know, the only reason you're
on my mind is because they paved the way.
But it doesn't matter now,
does it now, my love?
You are standing in front
of me, expecting me to run
in the moment you step
just a little too close.
Maybe you sway the room,
but I know exactly what you're trying to do.
And I know my limits,
and to fall in line with you
would simply mean that
my mind would lose.
I value my health—
my mind is my peace,
and you have showed
up too late in my game.
So sorry you won't get to me.
YOU ARE READING
THE ARSONIST
Poetry"You set my world on fire, but at what cost?" In THE ARSONIST, this prose-poetry chapbook explores third degree burns, stone faced lovers, and learning to love the blackened trees. New poems released every Thursday at 9PM MST/11PM EST.
