A Diatribe on ‘Nice boys’
Never mind your affectionate clement eyes and well-developed prodigious listening skills.
Never mind your fraudulent trifling promises that it’ll be okay,
And the morbid fascination you show to that which isn’t.
Never mind the hollow-hearted sense of security you lulled me into:
Talking for hours until you presumed to know me better than I did myself.
Never mind the deceitful propaganda of your advice and texts.
This belief in healing power of your amorphic presence.
Never mind your sham excuse for never calling me.
Never mind the rationality behind we can fix this,
As you mentally squandered on to my pain.
Never mind, for not laying it out on the table,
That it would never be me, but was always the dark cataclysmic and warped voice in my head.
Never mind for appealing to my mother “what a nice boy”:
And never mind for refusing to let me leave
for providing the plasters and the healing salve.
You’re not an Epiphyte and also a parasite,
And society will applaud your pompous facade, as you wrap your arms around these broken bows.