Stockholm Syndrome

What I once thought was love
I now see
was much less magniloquent
simple quantum entanglement

sometimes I feel you, I dream you, I see you
I miss you, I want you, I yearn you, I need you
but mostly I can’t wait
to piss on your grave

I’ll tell all your fans
of your darkest proclivities
and your repeat offense
of your vulgar propense

for a thousand nights
I let you call me a whore
I helped spin your web
I saddled for more
broken by your father
forgotten by your mother
and yet I, whipping girl
don your secondhand scars

you don’t deserve
to be remembered
you’re just a rapist, murderer
with no gall for consummation

I want you to know
I’ll be there at your wake
to read your crass letters
and a fool of you make.