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You are a Sick Metaphor and

I’m sick of rewarding you and this fixation

with the terrible romance of manifestos.

As orgasmic as they may blossom in this space between realities

neither of us really deserves them.


That’s not to say one won’t materialize tomorrow

or the next day.

Here is the conceit of this poem:


I lie, when I don’t say “I love you” back

I lie, when you don’t hear from me

I lie, year after year after year

Of “friendship.”


I’m going back to sleep now.

A coma hovers right above my face

ready to colonize.


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