as if my bitter weighed nothing

 
she called me a dreamer  
as if the residue  
from my past  
wasn't that sticky        
          
 
The weather is right          
for flakey baby          
let me castrate my intellect          
          
and stuff every sharp          
concise identifier          
into a pitched wicker basket          
and burn them          
in the first sliver of moon          
that I have not worn my welcome out with         
          
          
Long ago,          
I told her that          
I would never leave her          
          
little did I know          
          
that was the one lie          
that I am not allowed            
          
to fulfill.