You want anything that moves, but not me. No. Never fucking me.
On the day you left,
even my thoughts could not spell out
how tainted and polluted and used my heart felt.
Perhaps it was just illusion;
muddled confusion formed from distorted, blurred
notions of this ever being anything more than it was.
So I was left broken -
and that probably won’t mend.
Maybe this obsession will never end.
I want this or something better.