she sent me a message in the middle of the night (she hates me she misses me she loves me) she went on about how her finger wasn’t the same she misses the different grain of my rougher tip she cannot read my words but now sees them in a hundred other poetic lines (she loves me she hates me she misses me) if she could take my (tongue) dip it in acetone to remove the acerbic bite of sarcasm take my (head) from the oceanic submersion of word take my (cock) dip it in ink as she writes a scathing retort to my insipid odes to love (she hates me she hates me she hates me) she has spent more time poring over my lines sending me missives demanding to know who they are about who she is why she isn’t the she and how she knows who she is (and she hates me she loves me she misses me) and she has found a better poet a better lover a better person a better life

i only asked her, then why is it me between her thighs, between her thoughts, between her sighs (she hates me she loves me she wishes i would die)