He called himself a poet.
I would have never dared, but he
was so incredibly sure,
how could I have doubted him?
I read his work
and when he asked me what I thought
I looked up and smiled
because he was very beautiful
and because I could not look him in the eyes and say
you are not a poet.
I flashed my teeth and feigned interest
in his nauseating writing.

He thinks he feels more than others,
oh so perceptive and observant.
I could not look him in the eyes and say
you are no better than the gum on the sole of my shoe
because that would have been too harsh and
because he was very beautiful.
So I did what I do best,
and I listened to his trite music and
meaningless prose.
No, I haven’t heard of that band.
Yes, I do like Charles Bukowski.
I guess you could be the next Cobain.

During my dull endeavors, I discovered that
I am good at making out constellations in his acne, and
he is not good at making out.

He gripped his hands around my neck and continued to read aloud.
My face turned blue, but he could not notice
over his excessive production of carbon dioxide.
As always,
he was too enthralled in the sound of his own voice.
As if I did not have a voice of my own.

His breath was rank with fatuous words
and my eyes rolled to the back of my head,
escaping the only way they knew how,
the only way they ever have
in the presence of a pompous a**.

On the twenty-seventh day of patiently listening,
my veins throbbed and my eyes grew weary,
but my vision finally rolled back into its place.
My third eye, sick of fidgeting and enduring,
commanded my hands to grab his.
I pulled off each of his overbearing fingers one by one.

Just like plucking the undesirable hairs off of my body,
it stung.
A salty tear formed in the corner of my eye.
But, like always, I was glad they were gone.
I was glad he was gone.