On Redundancy

There is a bitterness at the tip of my tongue.
That I scrape with my teeth,
And try to remove the taste of self loathing
That comes only when I feel the butterfly wings,
Crushed beneath your silence

Waiting for that screen to light,
Allowing myself to believe
In the possibility of your presence.
Of your follow through;
Of your word.

Lying here with shivers
And a fever that won’t break.
Clutching the pillow
With white knuckled fingers. 
Gnawing at the skin around my nails

Hating myself for setting alarms 
To wake me up for your arrival 
Instead of finally sleeping 
And letting myself wake up,
To a well-rested disappointment

Willing my mind to go blank
As the TV plays something
I’ve heard 1,000 times before 
Because you, my dear,
Require nothing but my apathy.

I’m still convincing myself
Not to give you more.

2 thoughts on “On Redundancy”

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