I can put
my will
in
my pocket
and pretend
I never knew.
Pushing to be
faded,
Pressing for my prophetic
tattoo. The label that sticks,
mocks and mimics 'til your
personality peels - pounding
out the passion, permitting a
hurt that never heals. The
prophetic tattoo that proceeds
from the passive, the attitude,
which makes practice of you.

I can fix
my heart
onto
the freezer
and forget -
foster a
fancy for
apathy -
falsify my being
into a self-feud.
Favor what's foregone,
forsake the future,
fit myself a failure,
and fizzle with the memory of you.
But instead
I'll fix
my need
unto myself,
and forgive
the only feelings
I've ever felt.