Pelagiarism and Other Guilty Pleasures

I’m out of sympathy and ’seems to me

it’s a damned heresy how convincing

you were when I took your hand. Is that how

you do it? Now, is that how you command?

When I look, your pound of flesh looks like an

artifact without a concept, it feels

like I’ve been blowin’ glass into sand and,

on my wall, I’ve hung our tired talk; plaques of

pillow-white, platinum-bright nights we chuck(l)ed

and whispered away; wrecked hearts you’d broken

the metrics of. Our heart-hits, beaten per

minute, leaked torrents of tears you (p)layed bare;

Out-souled and worn, silver signed and engraved

records our young rebellion, louder-than-

better, tellin’ me what you never did;

’bout your hand, how it had all of my love;

and all of my what-I-never-said. I

went and I unhid, and now you unfriend

and unlike me like a fanatical

fountain of (s)old stares, (s)talkin’ (down to) me,

vagrantly begging me to fade. Is that

really what you want; is that what you should

get for all of the undue pain you p(r)aid?