Fickle hearted Martha Stewart Lady,
I cannot blame you for not waiting.
I was so far away,
out here I cannot touch you,
I cannot hurt you,
nor can I understand.
How I tried for so long to make you see,
make you understand that I did know,
that I did care.
We sat in the rain,
smoking cigarettes and watching birds with broken backs
staring us down,
and I could think of nothing but who you are.
Here I am again, laughing at the irony of it,
that I sacrificed what I did for so long and now,
the written word is even a difficulty.
Just to let you see for a moment or two,
the last act of futility,
the final stabbing blow,
that you delivered.
You knew I was in love,
you let me go after asking for absolution,
now all I am to you is a dim reflection,
something you can laugh about with your friends.
Have a good time,
don't forget what I was in your rush to prove that everyone hates you,
that no one will ever know.
I can hear your silly questions echo even now,
after the last bond was cut by something other than my own hand.
The child in you coyly replies,
trying to hide the fractures from daylight,
you run just as I do,
yet you betray my faith like this.
Let me in, let someone in,
don't hide like this trying to prove that you're someone else,
please don't insult my intelligence by carrying on.
Roll the dice again, find another lover,
walk away before it gets too complicated,
get out before you have to start caring,
run away before they care about you.
Believing that I don't is easy,
acting like I don't is such an old habit,
both I would have quit just for you.
Ten minutes, ten days, ten years,
what makes you think you're going to find someone else,
that will actually give a shit,
and isn't just using you for a quick fuck.
Have the common courtesy,
not to forget,
I did care once.
I turn away from the slow death in front of me,
to find what I thought I had left behind nothing but a mirage.
Damn you woman,
my own culpability and liability prevented me from action,
hands bound and voice silenced by nothing more than clothing,
cry out now to whom?
The only ones listening anymore are the dark and cold,
they care for no one's cries,
simply that they cry.
For so long I tried to form the right words,
bring all of it to closure,
or at least a beginning.
So proud I was,
so full of the high only a dead man can have when reprieved,
only to find that it was all some joke,
you cared not for the baring of my soul,
but for the temporary drunken solace provided by the right words.
I never told you what you wanted to hear,
I told you the truth and for this I am given nothing,
and to you I become nothing.
Poor little Martha Stewart Lady
fickle hearted Martha,
original prose, Yurei, 2000
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