in the whitewashed fault of assembly.
Me-me-me.
Boasting in the midnight! He will not change his tune,
bleaching the moon with his lonely song.
Sex seeking beast: me-me-me.
Me-me-me.
The mind sinks in confusion, cobwebbed clinging to obtrusion—thoughts,
unclean,
spill like oil seeping tendrils below the fresh river surface.
Life is waste and regret. And
I crave to hear him sing no more: me-me-me.
Me-me-me.
Merciless, he avows.
Day burns through the night, awakens the flock
to the return of repetition. And I, sleepless from
his night song of love and temptation: me-me-me.
Me-me-me.
The mind is tormented in freedom, strained to the lust
of his promised release of limitation.
I’ll curl my body around yours, quiet now.
My fear of alone, solo little friend
I would sing to you, too, but I have no song.
Me, mockingbird by Emily Hopkins, 2012
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