Indifference

If she were to split him down the middle,

making a heavy mark

down his lopsided center

what would leak?

This is her imagination, her shiny new desire;

to understand his innards.

His concave stomach

and jutting rib cage.

She gives in

to her longing curiosity

and sees he is bleeding

a variety of substances

she cannot swallow or wipe away.

So she returns to the original problem,

the words he used.

She wrote them down in flawless unquestionable penmanship.

When he used his mouth to speak, especially ‘always,’

his sounds were proven impermanent.

She often wondered if he treated his body like this.

If they would have

carefully smashed their lips together,

and pressed each others hands against flesh

would it have meant more then?

To her, it would only have been

another chance to dig into his organs

and discover what truth resides there.

It would have meant nothing more.

Or is his story a series of selective patches,

and when one patch expires,

so do all of his recent proclamations?

Is every claim he makes

held by an expiration date?

Her obsession with his character

came from an original love.

But as she endlessly attempted

to dodge his brilliant deceptions, his accidental manipulations,

she found her hands

too busy to continue,

her heart too heavy to crave,

and her belief in him

too strong to remove.

She had discovered

her own casual indifference.