I am pathetic in my questioning every detail
but when I reach to touch you, or taste, or smell,
For the minutest of seconds you fracture to pause.
And I cringe to think I'm the reason, the cause.
Idiot that I am against my darkest hoping,
I look at you nakedly, so completely open.
But your answering expression - your eyes - crush me closed.
It's what I've come to expect - 'the reject' - I suppose.
And it all starts again in my melancholy mind,
how could I possibly think? Could I be so blind?
What a sorrowful state and unsettling thing
when all I have to give is the wreck that is me?
This stressed, suicidal and used human being
who can't parallel park and has trouble seeing.
Who knows the best jokes and runs a damned good debate
but has nothing to really hold merit or rate.
And sometimes the delusion almost triumphs to win,
that you don't mind my age, cold hands and dry skin.
I'm so not a Sweetheart with legs long and lean,
or Little Miss Do-Good, sometimes I'm obscene.
I'm not thin - not at all - I'm not golden and glowing,
It almost sucks me into believing it - knowing - 
Then, alas, my dark heart is far wiser than I
it hurts me quite deep, yet I can smile as I die.
But it's okay, I say, it won't take long you see,
it's what I've come to expect for the mess that is me.

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