Dear Clark, catch

I saved that image.        
       
I meant to let it go as quickly        
as it stabbed me in the fucking heart,        
but instead I wrapped my hand around        
the hook and pushed the barb in deeper,        
eating the idiocy with bare hands and raw eyes.      
       
I saved the image.        
The one that made me listen to breakup songs —         
where you were Superman and I couldn't        
make eye contact           
without        
falling        
(in... .)        
       
I mean, without falling off a        
motherfucking building, blindly,      
believing your arms would        
catch me.      
     
And, I silently prayed      
you wouldn't because      
I'd break into      
nothing within you      
as surely as if I'd hit      
the ground,    
and shattering      
against your touch        
is sublime,        
compared to       
smashing against  
Terra firma.         
       
I want my lipstick        
to be made of        
kryptonite,        
so that you weaken        
when I beg you        
without words        
to destroy me.        
(Kiss me now        
and drop your pants.)        
       
I saved the image, love,        
it only hurts        
everywhere;        
the radio        
is nothing        
but static.