Why I mustn’t love again 

I don’t mind getting hurt

again –

that I could deal with.

But I refuse, today

and until I die,

to be responsible

for the pain

that hurting one more

woman in my life

would cause me.

Yous are too precious 

and deserving of

better lives

than the ones I always 

promise

and then deliver –

and then savage

and ravage

and anger

and do jealous: until

envious indecision

does

destroy without 

(and 

within).

So no more shall I chase

yous or think of

yous or want to hug

yous or caress 

yous or embrace 

yous.

No longer shall I dream of

a kiss.

No longer shall I believe in 

a glance.

No longer shall a lipsticked

smile attract my attention.

It is not myself I am protecting

from the beauty you are,

but yous, you see; yous

I protect from the bad

I am: the bad

I have always been, the bad

I will always be, the bad

I have never avoided

nor shrugged off

nor skirted

nor reverted 

nor inserted with anything

approaching true kindness

at all.

It is not me I am saving 

from the attractions derided by

misogynist,

but yous from

myself for the pain

I never will not 

cause.

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