In what view will you be seeing me in today?
The lens cycled through place the saint and its rival in the same space,
but in any fixture, I’m always one and the same behind the glass.
Against any better thought, I chase your lure around the bed,
tracing the tail of sin some nights before you put me in a different light,
injecting blame or hope when I’m wanting nothing more than to comfort your worries
or caress the hand of another.
I’d yearn to be glamorous,
but I’m stuck in another man’s glow
making me appear like secondhand clothes
passed down to you damaged and torn.
There’s a perfect heart-shaped hole in the breast of my shirt,
and I’m filling it up with the glass shards you handed to me from your mess
after falling too hard for the urge of a familiar venom.
A jagged piece tinges my insecurities every time I reach out,
for whenever you brush against me, I’m feeling everything,
but you’re only feeling like it’s him.
A single collision of fleeing bodies discovering a kiss in a car crash:
It feels like a world to me in all its hurt and all its triumph,
for I was able to take part in it all,
but I watched with glass shards in my hand as you went back to remember him.
Please leave me out of your sight if you don’t intend to take any of mine.
This calls from the precipice your finger points me down
as quickly as it beckons me to run back to your den.
Knowing no better, I leave an apartment open in my head,
knowing you’ve already made that bed as he’s knocking on the door.
No fee is needed for I know your lure will stay its place,
for I always knew the love I had for only you.
I was concentrated on a better part of you that wasn’t poking holes in my chest.
Had any care been given to assess the scene,
see a sight that wouldn’t ever find a level ground,
a daring ship captain would never flail about in danger,
seeing an iceberg approaching yet believing it to be only a papercut on the horizon.
I wasn’t ever looking clear.
I was yearning to be glamorous.
But you’ve traded me down like secondhand clothes,
set to rest on a shelf damaged and torn,
always in the range of your apathetic gaze.
( ❤ Mitch)