You Don’t Love Me Anymore

There’s a crease in my head.
Wasn’t there when we met, fresh-faced, indebted.

There’s a crack in my lips. Wasn’t there at first kiss, but yes, my mouth keeps on moving.

And there’s a crack in my self-esteem that wasn’t there at seventeen, or years later at twenty-three.

God, you should see the organ considered most important to empathy,

because its
arrythmia is me,
and you, my

And there’s a mass called my conscience, a scab I’ve peeled and picked over decades.

And like skin that’s lost interest in the blood underneath, you don’t love me anymore.

Maybe it’s
newfound faults,
maybe you’re
just bored.

I just hope it’s nothing to do with the scars I’ve persisted for,

the tongue-tied wars, our
engorged guilt.

I keep eating air beside you, but barely anything more.

That’s the part that kills me.

4 thoughts on “You Don’t Love Me Anymore

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