What You Crave

Don’t ask me to watch you
come apart into pieces;

if you loved me,
at all,
you would never want me
to do such a thing.

If you cared for me
even the slightest,
you could not imagine me
having to sift
through your ashes

to look for souvenirs
of a life well-lived,
or even a single memento
of something precious.

Don’t ask it of me;
don’t be so cruel —


if self-destruction
is what you crave,

let me follow you down,
let me fall away with you,
let me burn as you do,

and let someone else
run their fingers
through our ashes,

unable to tell one
from the other,
as it should be.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Love Poems, On Depression, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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