and wait around until
you kill his love
and shotgun his
self-esteem?
No—for
no matter when he’ll decide to grow
it’s still a fear he
can’t wear thin with
sitting on his
shoulders and telling him that
it was never real to
begin with.
So why does he still try
and put up with all your hassle
when going after your
thoughts is like
trying to attack a
castle?
You got it surrounded
by a million bricks like armor
and round it on all
sides by moat,
and getting to you is
made even harder for
he has to pay to use
your boat!
So why’s he bother
with all that jazz when you’re so cozy
and he’s left
miserable like you never were
as a child in her
home debris?
Your pretty toys were
always gotten free
from him when he was
on bended knees
amidst the wasteland
of your escapes and the
other outta-shape you
squeeze!
Just have him get
rimmed against the wall sideways
and stop and say you
don’t know him
with his skin gone
all ablaze
and a fang desire to
pounce on him for sure,
and just ignore the
real fire brimming
in his soul and the
dark dyes in his irises or
the way his hair he’s
trimming.
And before you know
it he’ll get off his console,
his television, his
guitar, and run outside
to show off his
gaping hole,
and drive off with
his new girl and car
so that you can see
his new eyes
when he comes back at
the break of day
reflecting off the
wild sunrise.
But no matter how
changed and bent out he’ll be,
he’ll still be your guy,
deranged and truant
or running to break
free—
and he’ll return to texting
you still
and give you the old
distended morning kiss
even if
pretended—this time to kill—
for he’s got more now
than this.
--Porter Daryl's Poems
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