That enigma of unpredictability – that
slashing and hurting
as it flowers – is not of my
doing, nor my natural instinct.
In truth, left to my
vices – whether technological or
just a quick fuck
here or there – I’m the happiest soul you ever
And it takes very little to make me so much
happier; and it takes
very little – the little
yous have become – to turn me into
the saddest man,
as you all do go ahead and
press the buttons that –
inevitable – make me that baddable bad.
And so really, truly, if you loved me as you say,
at the very minimum
feel obliged to do
as you do.
You’d allow me my non-
conformism, the things that
make me laugh
out loud: you’d not only tolerate
but positively celebrate
the difference that makes me exactly
what I am.
And yet, even as you profess-
like twisted all-
little can I do when I’m all alone
to survive your persistent negations
with the elation
my soul’s always gone and needed;
my soul’s always bleeded.
My needs are simple; yours anything but.
And so that is why
I now can see
it’s time to say that tiny goodbye:
my half is already
So what say
Yous also done?