What can I do with this?
When Mary Met Shelley.
You are not a sailor.
You ridiculously drown in lightning.
You die mad at me.
This colors my entire life.
I oversee the burial of your heart.
Which funnily doesn't burn.
You are a child of scorn.
I buried myself under you repeatedly.
Except now. I have decades to live.
I will go to old.
Everyone hates you. They elevate me.
I become your apologist.
I am dating you long after you are dead.
I am trying to be winsome.
Even as my skin thins, turns to paper.
And do I love you still?
Of course I do.
But you do not speak.
Mad at me.