one man says he’ll fight for me.
he doesn’t care how many bodies
stand in his way. I must admit that
I think that’s hot. I admire
the fighting spirit
in a man, maybe because
if I ever had to fight, I’d probably
turn tail and run.

the other won’t even try
to fight. he seemed relieved
when someone else
stepped up to take the place
he never even admitted
having had, like someone
passing the torch
on a relay into which he
was reluctantly drafted.
is he a pacifist?
does he think that he’s not
worthy, or that I’m not
worth fighting for? probably
he’s just not that into me.
or maybe fighting’s just
not his style. he waits,
and watches, and flows like water,
subtle, insidious.


my perverse, backwards heart
wants all the passion and fire
that simply isn’t there
in these doused embers.
can’t they be coaxed, fanned
into flame? guess

I’m starting to think
that perhaps the fault lies
far more in my stars
than in his – my stubborn,
stupid clinging
to what I never had
to begin with.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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