thorns and other maladies

76

it's just.
you never deserved a single poem
and yet i wrote you ones anyway.
i told everyone
we were a give-and-take
and in a way we were—
i professed my love for you,
you made me cry until i puked—
but you never deserved a single poem
not a even a stanza
not even a verse
not even some vague metaphor
that you can't tell if it's about you (it is).
and god.
now i'm just embarrassed
that i prostrated myself
at the alter of your worship
like you're some god
rather than a pathetic boy
who can't keep it in his pants.
i was so scared
and you were so familiar—
with your screaming and your rage
and your knack for
making me shrink—
but you knew that
it's why you picked me.
you love how easy i am to mold
how you can break my spine
in all the right places
and i'll barely make a sound.
how you can crack open my ribs
and i'll still let you hold me afterwards.
i wonder what kind of person you are.
clearly the kind that enjoys
comforting their victims.
it was like some sort of ritual for you—
bruise my heart
until i cry so hard my vision blurs
and then brush my hair
while i sob into your chest,
disgust me so horribly
then hold my hair
while i throw up in your bathroom—
what kind of spell were you casting
what kind of dark magic were you brewing
that you need to take my heart
and sacrifice it
in such a brutal way.
now it feels tainted
sitting in my chest
corrupting the rest of me.
how am i supposed to
rid myself of the rot you planted
when the scars are still fresh on my skin.
and god
now i'm just embarrassed
that i ever defended you
and your knack for
making me shrink.
i'm just embarrassed
because
you never deserved a single poem
and yet i wrote you ones anyway.