sayings from summertime
beg for rewrites upon
rereads and furrowing brows.
so, with stereotypes
and diction repeats, same
stories are told in carelessly
written garbage.
but you were careless garbage
so puzzles piece themselves
together, and these things
play your tune as
oboes in orchestras often do.

and what i wouldn't give
for a chance to have your
face in my hands.
there's no telling of what
i might do
or who might cheer me on.

words may have been unfounded
in your narcissistic eyes
in your histrionic head
and self centred speeches.
but reasons are more than few
and far between.

there's more to demanding
the world to take a walk in
your shoes. you crumble
at the face of empathy
and you know this
all too well.

and you know your mistakes.
you know what you
deserve.
i could leave you in
a pile of shattered glass
for the way you shattered me.
and i could laugh
if i saw you bleeding
in barrhaven
on retribution road.
i wouldn't.
but i could.

those books of things
like your 'pity-me' words
and your false Shakespearian
tragedies will do
no softening of calloused
hearts.
they won't cause
sunny breaks.

you created this
cloudy cynic with your
zippos under feet and dreams
provided and pulled your
trampolines,
telekinetic, in graceless
silence.

i dont.
i don't care much for
broken nails
existing on the same
two hands
that cracked these very bones.