From the bowels, a profusion
Of butterflies stirs
Their blundering flight
Announces your intrusion
And the feast that was within me
Will not serve as a barrier.
I have only to wait you out
Soon enough you will leave
But not before I die unconditionally.
A wake of vultures
Holds service in my heart,
The frenzied assimilation
Of your unwelcome presence
And a penitence that I must now attend.
I am tired of hating myself,
Of your eyes scouring
Of the rotten breath
Of the hysterical laughter
That forfeits humor
And I am tired of the advice
Of the meticulously applied faults
Which were never mine to assume.
A mirage, a clinical, self-soothing, oasis
The glass here has not been fashioned.
Each grain, a leech, an undulant minion
Endeavoring to empty me of all substance
Baring so many constituents I cannot but mirror
It is not me that you hate, it is your own failings
Which I reflect faithfully
Even though I have no words to define you
Only a dictionary rife with excuses.