I’m done writing about you.
In the spirit of passive-aggressive stares
and comments from our mutual friends
and constant texts that always say
I love you, I have had enough.
You are not a star,
you don’t have a heart of glass,
you do not create home within me.
You never did.
It’s time for this to be over.
Next time you ask me
if we still have a chance
I will smile and look at him
because he has my heart now
and you, sir, do not.
Fuck the late-night manipulation
fuck the anger that rises inside
fuck broken promises, empty words
underdeveloped metaphors and
your assurance that you’re actually happy.
You are not happy,
I am happy
because insecurity rose from
your icicle touch
but now I have swallowed the sun.