Sing to me some of your best sleeper hits.
I have a malleable personality…
…and in my strongest, I would eclipse everyone,
All these rooms occupied by a singular tenant, a giant
paroxysmic Mammon snug in his trousers.
I sew pajymas made out of people’s hearts.
We talk and solder in the form of bonds and treaties.
You are a treasurer of pain, nonetheless, and nothing more
than a questioning thug delivered into proviso, caveats.
I already got what I came for. My ears no longer work.
There is an off-switch at the base of this here palette
and in my throat, rusted spires
and a furnace. Well-kept, true fed,
I am best laid fly trap, set and cunning,
With defenses that shoot down words, and with legs for days.
Names have power, and I have
given it away so careless before to people
who never dozed off with their head on my lap, my finger twirling their hair.
I already got what I came for. My mouth is no longer sweet.
No, my poems aren’t about you. But I don’t blame you for your heart breaking,
nor me not remembering your name.
Why? Did you honestly expect me to bend the stars down and retake the treasures buried underwater?
I can breathe the infinite into you, but I probably won’t.
It’s not the same as wanting to.
I am too much, too much my own person; too much for my own good, and
You are an island so remote.
I already got what I came for. My eyes no longer see
this beauty in the beholder you keep talking about when I am not beholden.
All’s fun and games until one of us locks the other in a cage, tosses away the key,
and rides a shuttle to the very corner of the continent.
Your voice burns like arsenic.
We are not much; not much, if I reckon. Best leave it if we could. I want to go home.
You are an island I want to leave alone.