Most  of the time I don’t even like you.  Not a single part. Except maybe your eyes.  Most of the time I hate you. And I want to rip out your heart. Most of the time I want to use my bits of uranium and blow up your world. Most of the time I think you deserve her; she should be your girl. Not me. I wasn’t made for your morose, dark world.

Sometimes I think about the magic we used to cast around us. Mostly I think about the feathers you tore asunder. Often I wish I never had feelings more than lust. 

I want to gather up those bits and float off into your sky, turn the clouds black and blue, blanket the deafness around you.

I’ve let you poison my thoughts and into my veins. I’ve completely let you referee this game. But mostly I hate you and sometimes I don’t. Tonight I let you pretend to be mine and maybe tomorrow I won’t. 


4 thoughts on “Mostly. 

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