with terminal illness-
That tumor behind a
little face.
Hope gleaming loud
in her big eyes, and
walls ready to crumble
behind the stony walls.
Didn't we men create a
romance genre around
this trope?
Adding fragility over
fragility over the softness
of her white skin-
Only to bring out an
inherent duty in ourselves
to rescue this
starry-eyed girl.
Ohh this compulsive
urge to be a messiah-
A hero complex with
daddy issues that
leaves a hollowness
that needs to be filled-
You wait for her demise
by framing and reframing
your words for an
ultimate eulogy-
Isn't such tragedy
a perfect place to
rehearse your poetry?
But when she's gone.
when you no longer
have an audience for
your pretentious grief,
you're left with a question-
That if you loved her
for what she was or just the
idea of her, upon which
you could briefly park-
The only purpose you
were left with.