Your mind has fashioned this world into a Utopia
where houses are built with
Bricks made of prioritized pride
and mortar mixed with masochistic masculinity.
Bills are paid with responsibility
and everybody heats their houses with
logs hewn from halfhearted apologies,
lit by the spark that once lived between us.
Those houses only exist in a past life where
women are meant to be seen
and not heard
and you only fuck for procreation.
A perfect world filled with little boxes...
Little boxes filled with little clones.
You never cared about our rapport.
You only needed something to embrace you
when the nights
(or your soul)
got too cold.
My presence in your life
could be replaced with
a knock-off Amish quilt
or a platonic dime-store hooker.
I doubt you'd notice the difference.
It really doesn't matter anymore.
I've burned that bridge and
I'm writing this poem
by the firelight from that glorious blaze.
I've only now realized that
this is the first time I've ever noticed
heat between us.
The irony makes me laugh
and laugh
and
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September 2016
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