What are you thinking?

She asks,
and I don’t yet know enough that it’s a trap
that I wasn’t thinking of her, again.
Nothing, as a response is not enough
she wants more, more, more.
Later, I’d be thinking of how to avoid taking her out
the restaurants aren’t good
we’ve seen everybody three times already
no movies to see, theatre to go
and I’m sick that that she’ll eat then throw up
quietly, discreetly but the job will be done
all on my dime, my pay
its somehow enough that she’s here
wanting to know if my mind is freefalling away
it will be six months before she finally leaves
and my sadness, tempered by her madness
knows it will not be the last of her today
and she turns up again, raving in drink
needing to know, just what it is, that I think
about her
in truth its fear, fear that I want to love
the madly disarranged, fear that I am worth no more
than sluts like these, held tight to drugs, booze
and money for my dark love.

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