Hypocrisy
I used to get mad at you
for finding comfort at the bottom of a Stella Artois,
but, after you left, my nights were spent
with a bottle on my cold and somber lips,
hoping to erase your embrace
and nights that ignited me.
I used to get mad at you
for sucking your pleasure from a bong,
yet in your absence, I submerged myself
in Zig Zag papers and empty lighters, longing
to get high enough to suppress feeling your caress
when I thought of our bar closing conversations.
We may have been discussing stars and planets,
but my whole universe was sitting next to me.
I used to get mad at you
for caring too little about me,
but I will always hate myself
for caring too much about you.
