Poem,
You spoke of love,
You never meant it, it seems.
You spoke of happiness,
Your own at my expense,
Of morals: virtues,
As long as they were mine.
Your own virtues, hidden, latent in some distant desert swirling land,
Forgotten, along with me, my ashes, but a song to thee.
And I sit here, broken in you,
Living my life, trying but to spite, upsetting you,
Showing what is mine, and is not yours,
And I cry, As I realise this,
I live to spite you,
Not to aid me.