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Prostrated

I'm not an idiot.
I have faced your subtle rejection
as often as one's own breath;
the sting and recoil dull with each
understated devastation.


Believe me when I say
that I kick myself
dutifully.
A jaundiced bruise for
each time the familiar
feeling creeps and wells beneath
my goose-pimpled skin.


Today, you brushed my hand
a second too long.
The day before, you leaned
against the wall-- I undressed
you with my eyes.


God knows
why I read into these moments.
The butterflies
are just as soon ripped
wing from flimsy wing.


I'm not fatuous. But I'll
take tomorrow's lashings with
a smile. Call me your
masochistic romantic. Cringe in
my blushing face.
Leave it to me to find the
clichéd glint in your dull eyes--
for I will always get off on
falsities before
settling for indifference.




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