I regret writing about you.
I regret immortalizing this facade.
I regret convincing people that this
picturesque description
and intxociating smile
and "good-intentioned kindness"
was ever truly behind your dark eyes.

I'm not quite sure you did care,
and that would be fine
if not for how you deceived me
and used me for my mind,
and kept taking until I had no purpose
only to leave me,
drained
and ready for the grave.

I'm not your disposable pen
that you carry at your hip like a gun
that you use until the ink runs out.
I'm not an object.
I am first and foremost,
a person,
and it would do you well to remember that.

I wish you were here to read this
and to wonder if this is about you,
because it is.
I wrote it in my chldish rage,
but this burning beneath my ribs
is too intense to ignore,
and it seems the only thing
I have ever done right
is pour my anger
and my bitterness
into words.

Don't tell me you care,
for the writer cares not
if his pen dries out,
he uses it
and disposes of it
and moves on.

I refuse
to die
here;
I am
infinite