They’re on the phone again and they’re saying
all the things you want to hear.
These are empty words such as, “I love you”
and “I want you” and “I need you.”
It comes from their mouth and makes your
heart flutter like lunar moths.
But imagine two tin cans connected by a string
and a rope tied around your neck.
At first it isn’t clear, but then the realization
always chokes you up in the end.
It’s the dull sensation in which the mind and
soul slowly suffocate one another.
Between them is the heart, and it is stretched
out and worn down as a tire.
However, it can’t be replaced and scraped into
smoldering pits of third-wheels.
It’s a lesson that requires stitches and placing
all you have to give in a hardened cast.
Because “love” is in the way Narcissus admires
his reflection and drowns within.
As “Want” is the desire between Ken and G.I.
Joe; plastic, elastic and spastic.
And they always need a coping mechanism,
someone to use him or vis-versatile.
Perhaps this explains why some boys love
to play with girlish figurines.
Because the perfection of molded beauty is a
being without feelings or thoughts.
It can’t reject them and can easily be discarded
with no worry that Ken is hurt.
And all the honey in the world is contaminated
by black motor oil as they imitate geniality.
“I love you, I want you, I need you,” they repeat,
like actors who have memorized the script.
Bonobos plaid, Hollister jeans and sex appeals
the rotting truth, like expired fruit.
They hold a bouquet of flowers to your face,
but then stab a machete in your back.
Its silver shine is vicious and acidic as lemon
juice in an freshly-opened wound.
The next morning, apologies flow over like
vodka from a red Solo cup and beer.
Exhausted from the roller coasters and carnival
attractions, you bring yourself to listen.
Hung-over and with a lisp, they drawl the words,
“I love you, I want you, I need you.”
And there is always the expectation that you’ll
fall back again and offer adoration.
But what they don’t know is that you’ve fallen
once before and fractured the soul.
There were times where you plummeted down
the mountainside and into the vortex.
You are the tornado resting within the walls
of your own destructive nature.
And your eyes have become crystal balls, because
every single one has become predictable:
Assembly line manufactured, prophylactic transparent,
and accessories come inside.
You have to remind yourself that they don’t like
you as much as you like them.
On the other side of the line, words form in your
throat and they swirl up to the lips.
You long to say, “I love you, I l want you, I need you.”
But then realize it’s meaningless.
For they are poison on your breakfast tray, an ideal
brunch made for vindictive murder.
Before hanging up the telephone, you realize there
is no other choice than to say goodbye.
Written in 2015 / revised