Nostalgic Blah is Why We Broke Up

lying-in-a-bed-of-roses

Amelie uses the edges of her frown
Like a blade-
To inscribe subjective wonderment
Onto suitors
She slaughters when bored.

I am late night
(or drunk) moments of nothing
To her. It’s up to me
To die
To be replaceable.

I excuse her silence
As a pause
Between question
And disgrace.

For her it’s enough to suffer,
Affection towards pain
Is attention towards a special mainstay.
When recollection consumes empty calories
Required to be human.

She said suicide
Would make him suffer.

I am not him.
I am only interesting
Through poetry.

But if she wants
To make him suffer,
It would be more effective
If she lived forever.

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