I’m as unimpressed by your work
as I am of death, what with how
you exaggerate what little you do
to make me and yourself all up to go
nowhere short of alone, still hurt.
I’m as unimpressed by your kiss
as I am of death, seeing as what
got made of the time I’d thought
us to be making love wasn’t but
I’m whom you happened to be with.
I’m as unimpressed by your lies
as I am of death. When you’re done
with your next lover, just keep on
going. Leave me the hell alone.
Death and you aren’t my realities.