You're made of the wind now,
and your name rings in my ears
like an awkward doorbell.
I've seen this all before,
and I can't seem to convince myself
not to care
because I never thought it'd be you;
why'd it have to be you?
Your favorite color is
empty silver, which is funny
because I remember
telling you how ugly it is
but I never remembered
how tired you looked and
the way you kept quiet;
why'd you keep quiet?
Well, I get it.
I'm just some skin,
designed to keep you warm,
and you're just convinced
you can do fine on your own.
Open wide,
and let me shove this down your throat:
I don't want to be there for you anymore.
The last two stanza absolutely kill it. It starts with resignation/weakness, and it ends with total control and power. Awesome.
ReplyDeleteThe first line is good. The doorbell metaphor doesn't fit with the rest of the images.
The title is nice, but doesn't pay off in the poem enough.
I appreciate this. Thanks for sharing.