The man I love is dead.
I kill him over and over again
anytime there is a chance that I might
kiss you one more time, because I can tell…
my imagination is no competition to that voodoo you do
when you want to
and I resurrect him once more
every time you read but ignore,
silly boy, since you both run laps in my head
and you won’t let me tie you to my bed
so I made up a better version of you
who loves me like you ought to.
The man I love is real but he’s only been alive
behind my mind’s eyes
he’s enough for me when you lie but
he can’t survive
while in my heart you continue to thrive
and now I can’t wait until
its your turn, dummy, to die.