Don’t praise me. I will think it’s irony.
I am so insecure these days.
You’ll hurt me the more you love me.
Your poems will make me hate you. Don’t praise.
The hundred sonnets you wrote me last week
I cannot help but feel is some kind of joke.
In thousands of lines you said you loved me so much, that you could not speak.
That’s irony, rich guy; you confuse me. Has love made you broke?
And will you give your love silently to someone new—
As you continue to “not speak” in poems to me?
Or shower poems on someone who doesn’t mean a thing to you—
Speaking, not speaking, loving, not loving in an orgy of irony?
And then what will those poems mean? Why don’t you go away.
I need to love someone else, who doesn’t have a thing to say.
