I’m not writing for you.
Not finding the metaphors, hiding the meanings
For the things that you know full well to be true.
It’s as though my words you are blurring
Purposely out of focus, so you don’t have to see what I do.
And, like a nightmare recurring
I am no more than shameful taboo,
Or that I’m forever scheming,
Dreaming ways I can outdo
My latest mistakes. You
Are always so amused by them. Deferring
Feelings and moments until they all become untrue.
And so, you win. One day you’ll wake up seeing
Between us there is no longer any glue.
Nothing to stick us together, holding
Us in place. No more. There is no sweet adieu.
I’m still writing.
It’s just not written for you.