as if my bitter weighed nothing

she called me a dreamer
as if the residue
from my past
 
wasn't that sticky.        
       
The weather is right        
for flakey baby        
let me castrate my intellect        
       
and stuff every sharp        
concise identifier        
into a wicker basket        
and burn them        
       
in the first sliver of moon        
that I have not worn my welcome out with.        
       
       
Long ago,        
I told her that        
I would never leave her        
       
little did I know        
       
that was the one lie        
that I am not allowed          
       
to fulfill.