The past in you

If your words
can mean so much
for another woman
I am only a particle
from my own delusion...
I just want to touch you -
but I won't do it.
Thinking about you is a mistake
my heart cries
while I laugh with my friends...

I read the newest verse -
you dedicated it to another girl
but as soon as I wish
to hurt me
why the hell,
am I still mad?
I draw with crayons
my appearance in the dark -
by order, in your style,
because for me the difference
is the biggest threat…
To be honest with myself, I'm not -
even the poems are not colorful
that text written for you...

his sequel withered.
A new character in the novella?
How can I admit
that it looks like you again?
Does it make a difference
will he be able to love me?
I won't cover up
the feelings and the wounds
I will be proud of them
because I am happy too
from the fact that they destroy me
always with a different beat...

You don't pray, you don't show
all that lies beyond
your idea of the past
and the pieces stained with blood.
Maybe I should lie
that I got over you
and that it doesn't hurt anymore
but as for my poetry
sincerity does not speak
so what's the point
all this to continue?