You are not the first to betray my poems or the last of the stabbings.
I spit in your heart twice now I crucify what you’ve left behind and deny very letter of your exhale in my poem.
I’ve bored of conforming to your mood, the color of your hair,
the size of your breast,
your refusal of my love for flowers and the flowing waves of Fayrouz,
my strangeness in your embrace,
my black coffee in Carlos where your perfume is carved in the clouds of the water pipes.
I’ve bored of my addiction to silence, and of the poems of rock, of leather, of tin, and of circling around a dream I myself will never reach, but I try to convince myself so refuse me.
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