I’ve your key, still. I’m not sure you know
but you took a part of me, too
and it’s cliched, pathetic
to be lost and desperate
to miss a little the fixation
but I just want to know – what happened?

There is something not right here
and there is a box of broken glass
that disagrees with me, that says
I should have known. I am not young
I have awareness, I have presence of mind
and you have no remorse.

The fixation ended after the fact, and
I could be convinced that I am to blame

Storm in, with your violent eroticism
and clumsy movements, with your
effort and precocious nature
but you are twenty-one, you are no Lolita
teeter between uncertainty and victim
but the storm is not over – it is not. 

I am not covered, I am not a secret
defence mechanisms and empty bottles
and I am not yours – I am not


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