you’re in there


and i’m sick

of the mirrors you put in front

of my face

so you can argue me into some epiphany

you’re having about yourself

lock my words in a vice

that you claim is the boundary

of reason and fariness

but from my locked hands

and from my stiff neck

it feels like a beartrap carved specifically

for someone who might be tempted

to steal


if nothing i say is true

consoling, forgiving, or real

and you choose to cast my noose on the threads

of moments when your self focus

had me unraveling

i realize i’ll either be hanged

or i’ll run

and that neither answer will lead me to you


already i know i’ll miss

thinking you might someday want me

there’s only so many cold touches and shut eyes and hidden corners

and disguises

in dark car rides

that i care to romanticize

before admitting this has just been

one more verse

in the piece you’re sketching for your future resolve-

that the “she” of my details is

just a pronoun

in a sentence that wasn’t even about me.


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