275

"You don't love me!" she said,
tundras of hair whip like
vipers that try to hook
onto her face.
"You never say it."

"Grow up and realise that i do"

And fuck her, because
if she doesn't realise it
that I meant it
none the less
In idioms and metaphors,
then fuck how am
i meant to help the fact
that she didn't realise
it was being screamed and fucked
into the springs of our beds,
that It was spoken only in sheet notes
and etched into
every crevice of the subway tunnel
in big blue graffiti thats painted
over every week
It was sewn into the palms
of my hands, nothing
could force my hand
more to write then her,
isn't it seen in all
of my drawings and painted
in the vast constellations of
those shitty glow in the dark
plastic stars that scar the paint
that hung on the slants of
my roof,

Yes, but
she wouldn't fucking care though,
because she thinks
it's all for someone else.