Tuesday, April 12, 2011

You Die. Mad at Me.

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.

You died.

Mad at me.

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