blatant-narcissist

[What the stars tossed, salt-casual, onto the not-black of the not-night suggest could be love, but I can't read them.] This is not a love poem,                        not-love, a not-love poem. Falling waist deep into February             stomping the signatures of lost years             in footprints on the pristine present-             this, not-night has become electric             with memories smashing through             the thin ice of teenage alchemy,                    charged, with the possibility of                                  heartache,                                            frostbite,             or even    

My secret is no quiet thing, in fact he's very loud he always makes his voice heard, he will always find a crowd he begs and pleads for someone who will lend him just an ear he never will be left alone; he always sits right here In the middle of my forehead, an inch or two behind the pink and fleshy curtain which traps him in my mind in the middle of my skull, hiding right between my eyes living next-door to awareness; it is here my secret lies My secret lies and tells untruths, his tongue cannot be trusted he knows for whom I've cried, and he knows for whom I've lusted he knows the miles to Babylon, he knows the nights I've slept