Windowsill confessions
to dust
and dead flies.
Seeking joy in the arms of another,
but still feeling your weight around my shoulders.
You’ve broken a promise neither of us made
but I can’t not hold you to it.
Deal-
Break-
er
Tendril roots
in my spine
Puppeteer clique master
Packmaster
pack
alone
—
What false joys I have brought upon myself-
corrupting my own eyes with your digital
choreographed
personality
Best friends,
you say.
You’re liars.
Both-
You and
you.
This is spite and hope and
anger.
—
Fear of losing sight of me,
but not wanting to hold me any closer.
Missing sparks
of something you claim to want,
but can’t name.
“I don’t know what you want me to say”
That you take it all back,
we can play this game over and over.
No, snake,
this isn’t for you.
Not all sun’s follow cyclical paths.
or
maybe they do