Turn out the light, 

I’m sleeping with myself tonight.

With or without you, 

it makes no sense.

To see what you’re up to, 

to ask you to drinks.

Because where is the love, 

when it no longer plans?

When it won’t text back, 

when it won’t hold your hand.

 

When a person grants you access,

then rips you apart.

Throws out your ashes,

but keeps your heart. 

What if they’re careful 

and then they’re cruel?

Play with your best parts,

dissect them like food.    

When they turn the lights out, 

mid-conversation.

One minute you were peeling yourself, 

and next 

your lacerated.

Does that make them 

or you,

an idiot for caring?

Like feeling your feelings, 

is the same as giving birth, 

and tearing.

I thought romance was suppose to be exciting?

That butterflies were a spark-

not my anxiety.

 

Is my better-judgement faulty? 

Is my gut instinct numb?

Where’s the store for return and exchange?

My heart is bruised, 

too tired

of this day and age.

Some of us choose 

‘the one’

and make it work. 

Qualities are a safer bet than 

lingering looks 

 and heart-shaped beds.

Is romance a mist,

a self-destructive game?

A drug that makes you forget yourself 

and adopt another’s name?

But mum- 

If I don’t feel something,

then we are as good as

the moon and sun.

Baby, 

men and women 

are born that way;

and love 

a game

that’s suppose to be fun.

 

Then when did dating become

 about f u c k I n g

And expecting

n o t h I n g?

Like giving my body 

is just something to do.

Cost effective in this economy.

1 + 1 = you being used. 

You should know your only useful,

when dirty or wet.

Silly girl, always remember- 

Men aren’t that complex. 

Like my body isn’t connected to

my head, 

my heart-  

all of me.

 

Like i can just turn it off, 

q u a r t e r    myself,

in your company.

Maime myself, 

so you can attempt to love me. 

Gift you a baby, 

in return 

for 2 more years

 of loyalty.

Fairytales were clearly written

by women

with alcohol

 in their purse.

 

Shame a name 

wouldn’t smell as sweet…

 

…unless a husband

is asleep, 

in the back 

of a hearse. 

Am I  a  n o v e l t y    or   a   s e n s a t I o n ?

Am I person or a temptation?

Am I a child for wanting something real?

Do I live in the clouds for expecting men to feel?

Am I worth a conversation?

A moment of your time?

For you to be honest- 

to look me in the fucking eyes. 

To admit 

your emotionally unavailable

and then casually ask

 if I want more wine.

I think I’ll take the bottle home, 

I would hate to waste

any more time.