spies.

i never told you
about dusty lace
and the soft exhale
of a ceiling fan
slow and in-time
with decaying heartbeats;
it does not bear explanation
that i left you on
cold linoleum and lonely riversides
to contemplate your own skin
in comparison with
harsh sahara sands--
it is not a life i've left you with,
but a city block
where nobody lives
and what did you expect,
wire-bones and industry-eyes?
there are no petal-lips or
silkspun locks
for you to hold or touch,
because i am steel-on-honey
in all the wrong ways
and how can you not hate me?