Why is it, that I can hate you more with each passing day
and yet, when I see you, my heart
reveling in your beauty,
Your talent—it serves to do nothing
but make you more insufferably arrogant
and so painfully removed
by day, and thus,
you are becoming nonexistent.
I am nonexistent,
I never measure up to your impossible standards;
your criticisms cut me to the soul.
You may have no soul.
It’s entirely possible.
For how can you be so
so stubbornly insulting my virtue?
I am not Her.
I could never be Her,
She who stole your heart’s innocence
and betrayed you,
ripping out your heart and leaving it
on the ground.
She stepped on it with her Uggs
as she walked to her new man,
Jeans hugging her bone crisp hips,
Her extensions and bleached-blond hair swinging in the breeze.
I’m a brunette,
an hourglass figure
that is losing sand faster than I can hold it in.
Time slips like tears through my fingers as I watch you slip
Or maybe I’m just pushing you
to the brink.
The brink of nonexistence is a scary place.
The trees are green,
the grass is soft,
the air is sweet with the heady, secret scents of sea and lavender that we both loved;
breathing them in,
deep into our lungs,
we traded them, passing the bewitching flavors back and forth between our mouths,
our breath mingling,
but you are not here.
in my heart,
you’ll always be here.
But at the brink of that imperfect world,
as I cross over,
I know you’re gone forever.