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I am
a god-damned
idiot.

Smiles pulled by words he
says that used to be
mine, affixed black lipstick and
lightless skin. Why did I
think it so easy? It's true, men
feel, but feel the
now, not the later. Feel we can do
better, and some do, but the
rest suffer bitter, regretful
days and nights. Retributional
sleeplessness. Tired, teary
eyes.

Then, you come to me
vulnerably. Were my old
tricks not dead under a bridge some-
where, I might lash at
such an opportunity. But
instead, I will make the
occasional quip, the glancing
hint, never realizing you've
hidden that side of your
heart from my aim.