How does it feel to have poems written about you
and not to care?
How do words formed in the ragged exhale of
sadness at your absence
(despite the path you scorched through me)
fail to scratch your armored skin?
I breathe heavy while you sleep soundly
I type and think, type and think, about you while you
carry on like I
‘Fruitless’ puts it gently;
these words are proof
of how deep I let your claws
latch in me, spilling words instead of
blood with their withdrawal.
Your silence resumed one hundred and twenty one days ago
Your greed was insatiable—why do I still
give you more?
Maybe because it’s the last way I can talk to you.
Maybe my fantasies of you reading these
and finally understanding what you’ve done
give me some sick comfort
Maybe my version of you feeling sorry
convinces me that writing this might actually
be worth it.