You write love poems with the meanings you could never say out loud,

Wax poetic from a page but never look in her eyes,

Far too arrogant a man who couldn't ever be proud

Of his smile without the lipstick and his toffee disguise.

As if you'd ever scrub your skin before the truth;

As if you'd ever let them see your ashened roots.

As if you'd ever sink to sobs-

As if you'd ever drink to drown-

As if you never broke her heart-

Like you had never let them down.

Like they'd never-

See through tissue paper

Wrapped around your ribcage.

Goddamn, who do you

Think you are? This ink

Is bleeding through.

At twelve winters old, I watched you invent

Beauty where you did not see it.

You wrote, "she was a sunrise bursting through my darkened blinds,"

Whispered promises, crossed fingers and shut eyes.

You never wrote about the bitterness of stale orange rinds,

Or the lemon juice you squeezed into your lies.

And I remember thinking with my quill,

"Who lit this handsome fire?

We're fated to die on this hill,

Because all poets are bloody liars."