Your crocodile tears splash salty guilt

into the ragged gashes your inconstant

and insatiable so-called love has

already slashed into my psyche,

but this time I will keep my eyes wide

and my ears open to recognize

the lies the deposed king of hearts,

of broken hearts—that’s your part

in this tired play—has composed

to push me away while chaining me

close, because this time I’m gone,

out of the game, away, as far away

as I can go. They said hearts,

and so you claimed, but now I look

inside and call what I see a spade.


Copyright 2017

T. Allen Culpepper



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