The fragile silver of your eyes
Is full of salty smithereens.
My bitter truth looks at your lies
And wipes with handkerchiefs.
My heart’s turmoil screams and shouts –
A banshee, some witchcraft.
And when I cough, I cough with gouts.
I’d bled but I just laughed.
Elsewhere I’ll find my true self,
Let perish my dead past.
I’ll shove your book on a trite shelf
And there it won’t last.
Oh still not “darling”, still not “loved”,
I hope you’ll never be.
In other words… you are too roughed.
Why can’t I forget thee?