My rational thinking I leave to the worms,
it’s lost on girls like her.
My tongue, thick with personal truth,
she only sees as bulbous with rot.
My sense of timing I’ll leave to the wind,
it suits gales better accompanied by torrential tears and hurricane screams.
To the palms of her hands, I leave Acting With Your Best Intentions at Heart.
To my legacy, I leave assertion,
dominance,
the ability to say no.
My lips I leave to dust,
let them wither where misunderstandings interfere with mixed signals:
the inability to be unafraid of men,
and shared affection.
I leave to the corners of closets my apologies -
solid reminders of transgressions past;
let her skin flake to cover them,
and I’ll really be under it.
To bridges I leave only lighting the candle at both ends,
a cartoonish barrel of TNT,
a spitfire Kamikaze so full of intention
it cannot help but burn.
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