Ah, so there is indeed
More to you than I have seen,
But how can this be, when you are such
A vital part of me? And why plead
With you to let me take away
This blindfold of what I have been?
I care not for you, or, there is not much
I can see worth the care.
For your secrets I have no need
And yet, the splinter is placed
Under my skin. It begs, it whines,
It pleads, it cries to be ripped
Out in a torrent much to my taste.
So on my claims of apathy I fall
Flat with my hypocrisy. The sum of my crimes
If I were to glance at my hands
In your blood dipped
Would be greater than the worth of
That last sliver
Of your own self, which I would have
Even if it must be theft.
I would appreciate any criticism, because I wrote this in a moment of sincerity, and now it seems inadequate to the feeling it was written for.