You 
spluttered poetry at me
like you thought that would make me love you.
Adverse nouns, metaphors that spoke of pretty things
Pretty things that were not me.
When did I become
the centre of the solar system?
the waning of the moon?
the drip drip drop of sunshine on cement
When did I become less than skin
bones and humidity?
Your exclamations filled the air  
betrayed it with their force
flinging compliments like they were holy water
showering me like your words
(your vain jealous clinging words)
might be the ones
to fix me. 

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