A sonnet on why I never have boyfriends

Thrice scalded, twice burned, once regret

overtook the simple pleasure we pursued.

And so it all self-complicates: its own threat

until the familiar cynicism accrued

prevails.  And these brain storms (clouded with salty blues

and, of course, the pulsing reds so neither can win)

leave me again in a cloud of ambivalent hues

and I curse again that original sin.

But time ticks; ebbs and flows, and I abate.

A small but strong sentimentality

allows us to forget and re-operate,

though the scars root me in old reality.

Then I drown in this angry sea

and we will drown inside of me.