they are not shocked that I have
tattooed every lover’s glyph
along the stitching of my skin
but that I repeat the same story:
I have never, ever loved.

“yet such grand displays for men
that have touched you!”

 

I glare.
in general, I glare.
you can fuck three thousand men
and fall into each one’s abyss and
never touch a feeling but
no one believes me when I say
I have never, ever loved.

 

“yet you repeat their name with
such fever I think you may be
sick.”

I cough just to get attention.
if we are in a room full of people
and no one has looked my way
for seconds, I clear my throat.
no one believes me when I say
I am a pacified nihilist.

“yet you lend your hand to
every thing and the way you wear
your man’s cologne makes me
think you want so deeply.”

I want to sit still.
I walk the streets wrapped in
beats, a phrase tattooed on my
tongue. a glyph for everyone
I sung to.
(toss five dollars in his cup)
I have never, ever loved.

“the seraphim”

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