Don't you dare tuck me into a poem, i'm running away with all our memories. Don't narrate a word of this, you didn't earn it, never deserved it. Don't spin me into a lesson - yours were always too trite anyways - so what have we learned? Expression finds those who live it, seek it, form it, fill it... Fuck It, after this you'll have nothing to express: i'm robbing you of your thoughts on the matter. I'm plotting the worlds largest heist, stealing back all the conversations we ever had. And, my dear, I'm setting some of them on fire like the catalyst i had always wanted, ripping some to shreds in the way i always needed to be spread, eating sections of some to give me back that insight that i was so severely lacking, handing the more bizarre ones out in quarter-page fliers on campus streets to unsuspecting students, washing the uncomfortable ones in a load of darks, heavy duty to get them to bend or fade where necessary. You don't get them. This is your alimony, these are my winnings. A fools winnings, and i'll be damned if i don't fritter them away as i so foolishly please. So go on, expressionless, empty, unaffected, unresponsive, because i'm ridding you of that pesky pseudo-guilt-inducing burden that is meant to come with endings. No need to rationalize this to yourself. No need to excuse things done or said. No need to question all that was left undone or that had gone unspoken - you are hereby pardoned of all these obligatory steps towards "moving on". Because i'm stealing all our memories, and they have no place in your fucking poems.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment