You’re like a manhole,

Minus the man.

If you were the only draft,

I’d pick the can.

 

You’re the void in my donut,

The air in my chips.

I’d like to take an iron

To your tiresome, lying lips.

 

Around is where you always are

When it’s space I want instead.

You think my whole world orbits you

But I need you like a hole in the head.

 

You’re the deficit in my bank account

I never miss you when you’re gone.

Like a round indent and a square peg,

You and I just don’t belong.

 

You suck the oxygen from every room

Suffocating my will to live.

Like a glass of wine that’s always half empty

I’ll always want more than you have to give.

 

 

[From the “Prose Over Bros” Series by VP Anderson]