In his words....

Her summer was not earned.
The silence is winter-cold, and I can’t bear her heat.
Break the winter-cold, and I am standing in the desert.
“What did I do?” her voice is baby-soft, her bones as
fragile and hollow as a hummingbird’s.
Razor-sharp and surgically precise, my petrified wood-eyes burrow
Into the marrow of her bones, into her weakness.
“Do, dear? Why, you haven’t done a thing!”
Brow furrowing, child lost in the tidal waves.
I can’t stand her fucking innocence.
I once had that, but a bandit stole it in the dead of the night,
And replaced it with the pretty powder.
And now it’s her turn.
I hit her out of betrayal, out of the need for her to know:
Fate isn’t hers to take. I rage at her helplessness,
Shred the wings of her butterfly.
I hear the screams in her head, feel the pain of that hit.
And so I get mad – at both of us, at all of us.
I scream, and I have no point anymore – I’m just mad.
I’m mad at the spit flying from my mouth, I’m mad at
My half-smoked cigarette burning my white carpet,
I’m mad at her for not knowing the world.
She doesn’t respond, and so I call her baby –
It’s an accusation, because it is her fault she’s innocent.
I don’t remember that innocence.
I hold the cigarette to her lips, and if she gets cancer from it –
Thank God.
I tell her to be better, and she promises me with her touch.
She once told me stories of her mind, of dragons and knights,
And beasts being slayed by the knight in shining white.
But love isn’t enough, and control can’t be enough.
Her summer was not earned.