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.