it he were, pt I; a poet

he stands there, striped boxer briefs and bare chested, foot up on the sink clipping his toenails like the slovenly pig he is

tattooed forearm, tattoos calves, pentacle necklace hanging limply in the air

he catches a glimpse at himself and recoils in revulsion

what the fuck happened to you

scars on his hands, the pale reminders in his face of plastic spray, his eyes more brown than green as the headache slams like an angry dwarf throughout his head

saddened and sickened by the mess he has become he flips off the light after disposing of his waste

what the fuck did i do to my shoulder now

he lies down, the bed too big, his heart to broken, his head and shoulder aching in waves that seek to wrestle control of his mind

dried roses petalss and clove in a neat bundle of cheesecloth tied with a bit of lavender ribbon in his pillow case

it makes his eyes itchy at first, an instant reaction from his allergies that he shrugs off

he grabs his phone, the damned thing is always in his hand, tapping away more nonsense, trying to get comfortable, a position that doesn’t make one hurt more than the other

instead he feels the cold hollow in his chest, a simmering volcano of arctic magma beginning to boil

her smile radiates calm yet awakes such tumultuous passion

he makes a pained expression as she dances in his skull, gliding from ache to ache, he controls the narrative of desperation

if he were a poet, a talented one at least, he would write the sonnet that took her breath away, made her fall madly in love with him

if he were a poet, a decent one at least, she would know his feelings and the words he used would ignite that passion in her chest

instead

he aches and taps and stares at the ceiling

i love you even if you never feel the same, it seems i have no choice

he stares at the words in dismay, in disgust, if he were only a poet he could express himself to the world

if he were

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