Untitled

It’s a guessing game
I know well, dear boy,
and I am not flattered.
Incensed, ill at ease
nauseous and in dire need of fresh air --
...............Do I miss you?
Your unremitting current of honey merely masks
the smoke in your mirror --
smothering, strangling as your expectations.
Your pleas tiresome, and far exceeding
any gratitude earnestness might have rendered.
...............Do I miss you?
Were I not reproached as if I spoke
in tongues --
if only you hadn’t coveted, craved…
your hunger calling for the lovely berry
you placed there, on the flesh in my mouth;
...............Poor boy, is your idiom only that of the idiot?
but listened, instead --
heard it plunge from my dropped jaw
and bathed in the sound as it plummeted.
...............No dear boy:
not the shocked skepticism you’d have,
nor hymn of praise, poised
to replace my mouth’s vacancy
and color the air in brilliant tones --
pure, undiluted resistance
wouldn’t glue my tongue in place
as your honey has.
...............‘Tis a pity I pity you so.
Were your eyes not heavy with idolization,
ruined in erroneous adoration,
you’d see the blood-tipped fork that would stab
that sweet lush berry.
...............Revel in your torture if you will, boy.
So sweep my words beneath the rug
before you’ve chance enough to feel their spear like sting.
No matter --
your ears were always numb
when I spoke,
weren’t they?
Now you may feign blindness as well,
as I crush this inept attempt
like the over-ripe berry in my fingers.
The weight of my foot slides
in your sickening sugar --
there’s a reason they’re called
sweet nothings.