She fucked me until all the beer was gone from my refrigerator
and then the lonliness got the best of me.
So I learned how to subtly destroy myself
without anyone noticing,
with everyone thinking quite the opposite,
in fact or fantasy.

See, everyone always thinks the writer is so romantic
so capable, jovial, affable,
bullshit.
Anyone who actually falls in love with them,
finds out their little ineptitudes and daily failures,
begins a quietly adamant loathing,
a hate untouchable by change.

She turned my kite into a puppet -
strings severed, crossed, tied to my arteries,
bleeding out my ink to fill
a blank black canvas
with more black.
Usurping my page from my self,
my hand from my pen,
and my time from all my clocks.

But blue windows opened on my yellow eyes
drunk in the morning sun like syrup
through blindnesses drawn loose
so many pretty tales came walking
waking up my soul with coffee colored kisses
and I healed a bit
toughened a bit
forgot about a piece of my heart and kept
staying in one place while moving.