And an older one that I never posted because it was too raw at the time

GODLIKE

Godlike he holds her hand. She smiles. Salt tears
Headhearthurts. So you write it in a song.
They’re dead. You too. The poem lasts so long
I’m yelling at you from three thousand years.
She’s smart. She doesn’t shriek your name aloud
at awkard moments. Sometimes quotes your verse.
He asks about you. Her replies are terse.
Smiles thinking he’s not looking smiles are proud.
He sort of gets it. That first night he caught
your glance, your swift departure. Treats her kind;
comparisons are always on his mind.
you’re competition still. If jealous thought
caroms around your brain like iron wheels,
You’re fucking Sappho, bitch. Think how he feels.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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