Christmas Gifts

You've made it to my poem

means you've made it to my soul's eye:

I saw your soul, just for a moment -

You didn't even take a look at mine. 

My poems mean you've made it to my heart.

I'd written one for you even before the tragic night

when you stepped over my fragile moaning vibes

like a puddle of dust.

You're better at pushing people away than I.

I don't wait till Christmas nights (or days of birth),

You call it impulse control trouble. 

I call it curiosity bursts.

I tear off your gift wrap, feel your pulse -

Unwrapping, before seeing, is what's fun.

What's inside?

It gets me pumped.

The crispy sound of wrapping paper is the best.

I unwrap you breathing in my ear,

as my mouth explores your chest,

exposed, you release a pleasant moan.

When I unwrapped you, you were holding on.

Wet. Now you're denying my existence in your world.

Yet

I treated you like Christmas present

You told me things about your past and present,

You now ignore my presence,

Looking dead at me - past me,

Now let me f*****g pass.

Excuse me. 

You're in love with our shared ex.

Not really - just a faint idea

of her. And only one time more

than me and you, you two had sex.

She was my ex and now she is my next.

I kill two birds shooting right in the middle of the nest.

No, I'm not using her, I'm not completely numb.

I'm using YOU to let her make me come. 

I treated you like Christmas present.

Why don't you see me?

Why don't you let me see you?

Cause you're not even real,

Just a faint idea.

I like unwrapped gifts better -

they can't disappoint me.

I can imagine anything inside,

So I'll pretend that you are pointless. 

And I intend to keep my pride,

won't even pay attention

to the wrappers laying on the floor. 

Cause I convinced myself that I

don't want to see your soul, unwrapped,

so badly anymore.

- to R.W.