There’s nothing overly romantic about this Romeo and Juliet thing we’ve got going on;

[you show up at my balcony
after traipsing through the brambles
and we’re both battered come morning,
you from scaling walls and windowsills,
me from stumbling over this irrational lust]


Nowhere in the sonnets or subtitles of this fling is there written a word about love so far;

[all these text messages are poison
yet these I do drink to thee, the words
are “come” and “don’t” and “careful”
“I’m sorry” "be quiet" and always after midnight
your toxic vial of “be there in 10 minutes”
running down the back of my throat]

This story wasn’t written because I care about you, it was written because it happened;

[these things happen and we don’t yet know
the extent of the mistakes we’ve made,
but one day you will be holding me close
and whispering sweet lies and nothings
and I might just start to play dead to you]

If you should find my dagger in your breast when you wake, remember, I warned you;

[i reserve the right to alter the ending
to suit my needs. innocent and foolish
as I my seem I will not curl up and suicide
my heart for this until you come up
with something a little bit better than:

“fuck you for a cigarette? say now?”]