the hollowness
in hearing so often
it isn’t me
when it most fucking
certainly has to be
because there is
no other explanation
to how little
consideration is
ever afforded to
the fact i was always
right fucking here

no one can be so
consistently taken
for fucking granted
and it not be some
fatal flaw in their
broken everything
which leaves them
completely undesirable
when they were never
afforded an opportunity
to present their case

the sad word boy
who still loves
every single heart
that rejected his
battered tenderness
seeing his truth in
shadowbox illusions
lacking actual depth
with which to build
anything but an ashen
pyre sputtering futily
showering sparks to
singe the eyelashes
of absent divinity