the cliche's soliloquy pour vous

I haven't had this clump,

Mangled thorns and running

Reams tear-blue sky

Since I last loved you.

I am a mute since then,

And then, and then,

The tombstone words

Fell out of my mouth

Like ash down a well,

Or a witch and her spell,

The deceived, conceived

The same red way.

I slept on springs, jumping

Roar, belching night,

Because then I could feel,

Could feel you.

That's what they all say,

To pain and to love and to

Hand-in-glove. Make it work,

Unless he's your teacher.

Imagine falling in love with God,

Derobing he who made you you,

Imagine f*****g Death. Imagine

the doornail in your neck.

I'm stopping with the glories,

The head-hurting, new remedies

To thought. Cliches it is.

I'm going to roar the cliches.

When it came down to it,

I loved you, loved me,

Loved we. You you you,

My lovers stew, mouthful on the pew. 

I confused cocaine with kisses,

Cholera with lust,

Ah, I was really quite naive, I,

How it rips, oh my.

I knew I was silly then.

I wore it like a title, 

I was so proud to be so unfulfilled,

It gave me something to aspire to.

I ruined a lot of things, too,

Not least of them myself,

And because I was all I had,

I was all torn. All alone, a torn paper baby.

I couldn't go back to my mother,

It killed to suck my own breast,

And my teacher, the last of my

Shape-shifters, didn't want me.

I could have spoken up,

Bleeted a lamb's apology,

I'm sure you'd have welcomed me into your herd.

I didn't want to be a title. 

I didn't want another drowning

Or flamboyancy

Or language,

I wanted to be correctly fitted,

A mitten pour vous.